I

«6

%

v

i

THE WIDOW LEROUGE. v

A Novel.

BY *

EMILE GABORIAU.

u

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH

BY

FRED. WILLIAMS and GEORGE A. O. ERNST.

BOSTON :

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,

(late TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.,)

124 Tremont Street.

'873-

&\\2

w

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
By JAMES R. OSGOOD &*CO.f
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

By transfer

U. 8. Soldiers Home Lib.

WAR 18 i938

Boston :

Stertotyped and Printed by Rand, A very, &• Co.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE

CHAPTER I.

On Thursday, the 6th of March, 1862, tw©
da rs after Shrove Tuesday, five women of
t village of Joncliere presented them-
es at the bureau of police at Bougival.
They stated that for two days past no
i i had seen the Widow Lerouge, — one of
/ fir neighbors, who lived by herself in an
isolated cottage. The house was shut up.
Several persons had knocked without re-
ceiving an answer. The window-shutters
as well as the door were closed ; and it was
impossible to obtain even a glimpse of the
interior.

This state of affairs alarmed them. Ap-
prehensive of a crime, or at the least an
accident, they demanded the interference
of justice to satisfy their doubts by forcing
the door and entering the house.

Bougival is a quiet maritime village,
its inhabitants principally boatmen, who
ply upon the river. Trifling offences are
sometimes heard of in its neighborhood,
but crimes are rare.

The commissary of police at first re-
fused to listen to the women, but their
importunities fatigued him into compliance.
He called into requisition the services of a
(locksmith, the brigadier of gendarmes,
jand two of his men ; and, thus accompanied,
he followed the neighbor of the Widow
Lerouge.

Whatever celebrity it possesses, La Jon-
chere owes to the projectors of the rail-
way, which has now passed close to it for
several years, with more enterprise than
profit. It is a hamlet of small importance,
seated upon the side of the hill which over-
looks the Seine between Malmaison and
Bougival. It is about twenty minutes’ walk

from the main road ; which, passing by
Rueil and Port Marly, goes from Paris to
St. Germain. A steep and rugged road,
or rather by-path, not easily travelled, turn-
ing off at right angles from the main road,
leads to it.

The little troup, headed by * the gen-
darmes, followed the highway bordering
the river, until it reached this cross-road,
into which it turned, and after stumbling
over its rugged inequalities for about a
hundred yards halted before the dwelling
of the Widow Lerouge.

It was a house, or rather cottage, of
modest, but comfortable appearance, and
must have been built by some Parisian
shopkeeper in love with the beauties of
Nature; for all the trees had been carefully
cut down. More deep than wide, it con-
sisted of two apartments on the ground
floor with a loft above. Around it extended
a much-neglected garden, enclosed by a
wall of dry stones about three feet high,
much dilapidated, — broken and crumbling
in many places, and affording but slight
protection against trespassers. To this
garden a light wooden gate, turning on
hinges clumsily constructed of iron wire,
gave access.

“ This is the house,” said the women. -

The commissary turned. During his
short walk, the number of his followers had
been rapidly increasing, and now included
all the idle persons in the village. He saw
before him about forty peasants of both
sexes, nearly wild with curiosity.

“ Let no one enter the garden,” said he ;
and, to ensure obedience, he placed the two
gendarmes on sentry before the entrance,
and advanced towards the house, accompa-
nied by the brigadier and the locksmith.

6

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

After calling several times, he knocked
loudly with his cane, at the door first, and
then successively at each of the window-
shutters. After each blow, he placed his
ear against the wood and listened. Hear-
ing nothing, he turned to the locksmith.

“ Open 1 ” said he.

The workman unstrapped his basket,
and produced his implements. He had
already introduced a skeleton key into the
lock, when a loud exclamation was heard
from the crowd outside the gate.

“ The key ! ” they cried. “ Here is the
key ! ”

An urchin of some dozen years, playing
with his companions, had perceived in a
ditch by the roadside an enormous key,
which he had picked up and carried to the
cottage in triumph.

“ Give it to me gamin,” said the briga-
dier. “We shall see.”

The key was tried. It was, in fact, the
key of the house.

The commissary and the locksmith ex-
changed glances full of sinister misgivings.

o o o o

“ This looks bad,” muttered the brigadier.
They entered the house ; while the crowd,
restrained with difficulty by the gen-
darmes, stamped with impatience, or clam-
bered on the garden wall, stretching their
necks eagerly, to see or hear something of
what was passing within the cottage.

Those who anticipated the discovery of
crime, were unhappily not deceived. Of
this the commissary was satisfied upon the
threshold. Every thing in the first room
pointed with a sad eloquence to the pres-
ence of a malefactor. The furniture — a
bureau and two large trunks — were forced
and broken open. In the inner room, the
disorder was even greater. It seemed as
though some furious hand had taken a fiend-
ish pleasure in creating frightful disorder.

In the inner room, near the chimney, was
found extended upon the hearth the dead
body of the Widow Lerouge. She was
lying with her face in the ashes. One side
of the face and a portion of the hair were
burnt ; it appeared a miracle that the fire
had not caught her clothing.

“Wretches!” exclaimed the brigadier.
“ Could they not have robbed, without
assassinating the poor woman ? ”

“But where has she been wounded ? ”
inquired the commissary. “ I do not see
any blood.”

“ Hold ! here between the shoulders,”
replied the brigadier ; “ two fierce blows,
by my faith. I’ll wager my stripes she
had no time to cry out.”

He stooped over the corpse and touched
it.

“ She is cold,” he continued, “ and com-
pletely rigid. It is at least thirty-six hours
since she received her death-wound.”

The commissary began writing at the
table his summary official report.

“ Wc are not here to speculate, but to
discover the criminal,” said he. “ Let
information be at once conveyed to the
justice of peace, and the mayor at Bougi-
val, and send this letter without delay to
the Palace de Justice in Paris. In less
than two hours a judge of inquiry can be
here. In the meanwhile, I will proceed to
a provisional inquest.”

“ Shall I carry the letter ? ” asked the
brigadier.

“ No, send one of your men; you will be
useful to me here in keeping away intruders,
and finding the witnesses I shall require.
It is advisable to leave every thing in this
chamber as we have found it. I shall
install myself in the other.”

A gendarme departed at a run towards
the station at Rueil ; and the commissary
commenced his investigations in regular
form, as prescribed by law.

“ Who was this Widow Lerouge ? "Where
did she come from? How was she em-
ployed ? Upon what means did she live ?
What were her habits, her manners, her
companionships ? Was she known to have
enemies? Was she a miser? Did she
pass for being rich ? ”

All this it was important to the commis-
sary to ascertain.

But, although the witnesses were numer-
ous enough, they possessed but little infor-
mation. The depositions of the neighbors,
successively interrogated, were empty, in-
coherent, and incomplete. No one knew
any thing of the victim. She was a stran-
ger in the country. Many presented them-
selves as witnesses, moreover, who came
forward less to afford information than to
seek the gratification of their curiosity.
A gardener who had been an acquaintance
of the deceased, and a young girl who sup-
plied her with milk, were the only persons
capable of giving any precise evidence ;
and that was insignificant enough.

In a word, after three hours of laborious
investigation, after having undergone the
infliction of all the gossip of the country,
after receiving evidence the most contradic-
tory, and listened to commentaries the most
ridiculous the following is all that ap-
peared any way near certainty to the be-
wildered commissary.

Twelve years before, at the beginning of
1850, the woman Lerouge had made her ap-
pearance at Bougival , with a large wagon
piled with furniture, linen, and her per-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

7

sonal effects. She had stopped at an inn, de-
clared her intention of settling in the neigh-
borhood, and immediately went in quest of
a house. Finding this one unoccupied, and
liking it, she had taken it, without trying to
beat down the terms ; paid in advance three
hundred and twenty francs for the first six
months, but refused to sign a lease.

The house taken, she installed herself the
same day, and expended about a hundred
francs on repairs.

She was a woman about fifty-four or
fifty-five years of age, well preserved, active,
and in the enjoyment of excellent health.
No one knew her reasons for taking up her
abode in a country where she was an abso-
lute stranger. She was supposed to have
come from Normandy, having been at times
seen to wear the high white muslin head-
dress of that country. This night bonnet,
as the neighbors called it, did not prevent
her from wearing very coquettish costumes
during the day ; indeed, she Svorc ordina-
rily very handsome dresses, very showy rib-
bons on her bonnets, and covered herself
with as many jewels as a gipsy. Without
doubt she had lived near the sea, for sailors
and seafaring topics recurred incessantly
in her conversation.

Her husband she said was dead, having
been lost at sea ; but, as she never entered
into particulars on this subject, the impres-
sion was that she disliked speaking of

him.

On one particular occasion she had re-
marked in presence of the milkmaid and
three other persons, “No woman was
ever more miserable than I during my mar-
ried life." And at another, “All new,
all fine! A new broom sweeps clean. My
sea-monster of a husband loved me for only
a year 1”

The Widow Lerouge passed for rich, or
at the least for being very well off ; and she
was not a miser. She had given a woman
at Malmaison sixty francs to pay her rent,
and at another time advanced two hundred
francs to a fisherman of Port Marly. She
was fond of good living, spent a good deal
of money on" her table, and bought wine in
large quantities. She took pleasure in
treating her acquaintances, and her dinners
were excellent. If complimented on her
easy circumstances, she made no very strong
denial. She had frequently been' heard to
say, “ I have neither lands nor houses : but
I have every thing I want ; and, if I wished
for any thing more, I could have it.”

Beyond this, the slightest allusion to her
past life, her country, or her family had
never escaped her, although she was talka-
tive, and at times very boastful. She was

supposed, however, to have seen the world,
and to know a great deal. She never went
out in the evenings, but barricaded herself
in her cottage as in a fortress. It was well
known that she got tipsy regularly after
dinner and went to bed very soon after-
wards. Rarely had strangers been seen to
visit her, — two or three times a lady and a
young man, and upon one occasion two
gentlemen, — one old and decorated, the
other young and of a distinguished appear-
ance; these latter came in a magnificent
carriage.

In conclusion, the deceased was held in
little esteem by her neighbors. Her con-
versation was often singular, and odious in
the mouth of a woman of her age. She
had been heard to give a young girl the
most detestable counsels. A pork butcher,
embarrassed in his business, tempted by
her supposed wealth, had at one time paid
her his addresses. She declined his ad-
vances, declaring that to be married once
was enough for her. At several times two
men had been seen in her house, the first of
whom was young and looked like a laborer
who worked upon the railway; the other
was a big man, rather elderly, with huge
brown whiskers and dressed in a blouse,
who appeared very fierce and even danger-
ous. These men wt^re suspected to be her
lovers.

Having interrogated all his witnesses, the
commissary proceeded to write out their
depositions. As he finished the last page,
the judge of inquiry arrived upon the
scene, attended by the chief of the detective
police, and one of his agents.

M. Daburon was a man thirty-eight
years of age, well made, and of very pre-
possessing appearance; sympathetic not-
withstanding his coldness; wearing upon
his handsome countenance a calm and
sweet expression, although tinged with sad-
ness. This settled melancholy had re-
mained with him ever since his recovery,
two years before, from a dreadful malady,
which had well nigh proved fatal.

Judge of inquiry since 1859, he had rap-
idly acquired the most brilliant reputation.
Laborious, patient, and acute, he knew with
singular skill how to disentangle the skein
of the most complicated affair, and from
the midst of a thousand threads lay hold of
the right one. None better than he could
solve those terrible problems where the sign
x — in algebra, the unknown quantity —
represents the criminal. Armed with an
irresistible logic, he deduced the unknown
from the known, and excelled in collecting
and uniting in a bundle of overwhelming
proof facts to others unimportant and cir-

8

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

cumstances in appearance the most insig-
nificant.

Although possessed of qualifications for
his office so numerous and valuable, he was
tremblingly distrustful of his own abili-
ties, and exercised his terrible functions
with diffidence and hesitation. He wanted
audacity to risk those coups de . theatre ,
so often resorted to by his contemporaries
in the pursuit of truth.

Thus it was repugnant to his feelings to
deceive even an accused person, or lay
snares for him ; in fact the mere idea of
the possibility of a judicial error terrified
him. They said of him in the courts, “ He
is a trembler.” What he sought was not pre-
sumption or conviction, but the most abso-
lute certainty. No rest for him until the
day when the accused was forced to bow
before the evidence; so much so that he
had been jestingly reproached with seeking
not to discover criminals but innocents.

The chief of detective police was none
other than the celebrated Gevrol, who has
so often figured in our previous works. He
was really an able man, but wanting in
perseverance, and liable to be blinded by
an incredible obstinacy. If he lost a clew,
he could not bring himself to acknowledge
it, still less to retrace his steps. His
audacity and coolness, however, rendered it
difficult to disconcert him ; and *being at
once courageous, and possessed of immense
personal strength, he never hesitated to
confront the most daring of malefactors.

But his specialty, his triumph, his glory,
”was his memory of faces, so prodigious as
to exceed belief. Did he see a face for five
minutes, it was enough. Its possessor was
catalogued, and, no matter how long the
interval, recognized on reappearance. The
impossibilities of place, the unlikelihood of
circumstances, the most incredible disguises,
could not lead him astray. What he re-
membered, he said, was the peculiarities of
the shape, size, color, and expression of the
eyes, at which alone he looked, without
noticing any other features.

This faculty was severely tested before
he had been a week at Poissy, by the fol-
lowing experiment. Three prisoners were
draped in coverings completely disguising
their figures. Over their faces were veils,
allowing nothing of the features to be seen
except the eyes ; and in this state they were
shown to Gevrol.

Without the slightest hesitation he recog-
nized the prisoners and named them.

Had chance alone assisted him ?

The aid-de-camp who attended Gevrol
was an old offender, reconciled to the law,
— a jolly fellow, cunning, quick, and useful

in his way, but secretly jealous of his chief,
whose abilities he held in light estimation.
He was named Lecoq.

The commissary, by this time heartily
tired of his responsibilities, welcomed the
judge of inquiry and his agents as liber-
ators. He related rapidly the facts collected
in his official report.

“ You have proceeded well, monsieur,”
said the judge. “ All is stated clearly ; yet
there is one fact you have omitted to ascer-
tain.”

“ What is that, monsieur ? ” inquired the
commissary.

“ On what day was the Widow Lerouge
last seen, and at what hour ? ”

“ I am coming to that, monsieur. She
was seen and spoken to on the evening of
Shrove Tuesday, at twenty minutes after
five. She was then returning from Bougi-
val with a pannier of provisions.”

“ You are sure of the hour ? ” inquired
Gevrol.

“ Perfectly, and for this reason : two wit-
nesses, the woman Tellier and a cooper who
lives hard by, alighted from the omnibus
which leaves Marly every hour, when they
perceived the widow in the cross-road, and
hastened to overtake her. They conversed
with her until they separated at the door
of her own house.”

“ And what had she in her pannier ? ”
demanded the judge of inquiry.

The witnesses were ignorant. They knew
only that she carried two bottles of wine
sealed, and another of brandy. She com-
plained to them of headache, and said,
“ While you are going to enjoy yourselves,
according to custom on Shrove Tuesday, I
am going to' bed.”

“So, so ! ” exclaimed the chief of police.
“ I know where it is necessary to search I ”

“ You think so ? ” inquired M. Daburon.

“ Par bleu ! it is clear enough. We want
to find the large brown man, the gallant
in the blouse. The brandy and the wine
were intended for his entertainment. The
widow expected him to supper. He came,
sure enough, the amiable gallant 1 ”

“ Oh ! ” cried the brigadier, evidently
scandalized, “ she was very old, and ter-
ribly ugly 1 ”

Gevrol regarded the honest gendarme
with an expression of contemptuous pity.

“Know, brigadier,” said he, “that a
woman who has money is always young
and pretty, if she desires to be thought so ! ”

“ Perhaps there is something in that,”
replied the judge. “ It did not occur to me.
I am more impressed by the remark of this
unfortunate woman, ‘ If I wished for
any thing more, I could have it. ’ ”

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

9

/^KThat also attracted my attention,”
acquiesced the commissary.

Gevrol did not take the trouble to listen.
He held to his own opinion, and began to
inspect minutely every nook and corner of
the room. Suddenly he turned towards
the commissary.

“ Now that I think of it, ” cried he,
“ was it not on Tuesday that the weather
changed ? It had been dry for a fortnight,
and on that evening it rained. At what
hour did the rain commence here ? ”

“ At half-past nine,” answered the brig-
adier. “ I went out from supper to make
my circuit of the dancing halls, when I
was overtaken by a heavy shower opposite
to the Rue Pecheurs. In less than ten
minutes there was half an inch of water
on the pavement.”

“ Very well,” said Gevrol. “ Then if
the man came after half-past nine his shoes
must have been muddy. If dry, he arrived
sooner. This ought to have been ascer-
tained before the floor was disturbed.
Were there any imprints of footsteps, M. le
commissary ? ”

“ I must confess we never thought of
looking for them.”

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed the chief of police,
in a tone of irritation, “ that is vexatious ! ”

“ Wait ,” replied the commissary ; “ there
is yet time to see if there are any,
— not in this room, but in the other.
We have there deranged absolutely nothing.
My footsteps and those of the brigadier
may be easily distinguished. Let us see.”

As the commissary opened the door of
the second chamber, Gevrol stopped him.

“ I demand permission, M. the judge,”
said he, “ to examine the apartment before
any one else is permitted to enter.”

“ Certainly,” acquiesced Daburon.

Gevrol passed into the room, the others
remaining on the threshold. He took in at
a glance the scene of the crime.

Every thing, as the commissary had stated,
seemed to have been overturned by some
furious madman.

In the middle of the chamber stood a
table laid for one person, and covered with
a fine linen table cloth, white as snow.
Upon this was placed a magnificent wine-
glass of the rarest manufacture, a very
handsome knife, and a plate of the finest
porcelain. There was an opened bottle of
wine, hardly touched, and another of
brandy, from which about five or six petits
verves had been taken.

At the right, along the wall, stood two
handsome cupboards of walnut, with orna-
mental locks and hinges of brass, one each
side of the window ; both were empty, and

the contents scattered on all sides. There
were clothing, linen, and other effects
unfolded, tossed about, or smashed to
pieces.

At the back, near the chimney, a small
closet in the wall for holding the plate was
torn open. At the other side of the chim-
ney, an old secretary with a marble top had
been smashed into fragments, and rum-
maged to its inmost recesses. The desk,
wrenched away, hung by a single hinge.
The drawers were pulled out and emptied
upon the floor;

At the left of the room the bed had been
completely disarranged and overturned,
the bed-ticking cut, and the straw with
which it was filled thrown out.

“ Not the slightest imprint,” murmured
Gevrol, disappointed. “ He must have ar-
rived before half-past nine. You can all
come in now.”

He walked right to the corpse of the
widow, near which he knelt.

“ It cannot be said,” grumbled he, “ that
the work is not properly done ! the assassin
was no apprentice 1 ”

Then looking right and left, —

“ Oh I oh ! ” continued he, “ the poor
devil was busy with her cooking when he
struck her ; see her pan of ham and eggs
upon the hearth. The brute hadn’t patience
to wait for his dinner. He struck the blow
fasting ; therefore he can’t invoke the gaiety
of dessert in his defence 1 ”

“It is evident,” said the commissary,
“ that robbery was the motive of this
crime.”

“ It is probable,” answered Gevrol in a
sharp tone ; “ and that accounts for the
absence of silver on the table. ”

“ Hold 1 Some pieces of gold in this
drawer ! ” exclaimed Lecoq, who had been
searching on his own account, — “ about
three hundred and twenty francs 1 ”

“ What ! ” cried Gevrol, a little dis-
concerted.

But hd recovered from his embarrass-
ment quickly, and continued, —

“ He must have forgotten them ; that
often happens. I have more than once
known an assassin, having accomplished
the murder, so utterly bewildered as to
depart without remembering the plunder,
for which he had committed the crime.
Our man became excited perhaps, or per-
haps may have been interrupted. Some
one may have knocked at the door. "What
makes me more willing to think so is, that
the scamp did not leave the candle burn-
ing. You see he took the trouble to ex-
tinguish it.”

“ Bart 1 ” said Lecoq. “ That proves

10

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

nothing. He is probably an economical
and careful man.”

The investigations of the two agents
were continued all through the house ; but
their most minute researches resulted in
discovering absolutely nothing; not one
piece of evidence to convict; not the
most feeble ;!* nation which might serve
as a point of departure. Even the dead
woman’s papers, if she possessed any, had
disappeared. Not a letter, not a scrap
of paper even, to be met with.

From time to time Gevrol stopped to
swear or grumble.

“ Oh ! it is a clever piece of work ! See
what care the scoundrel takes of number
one ! He is a clever hand I ”

“ What conclusion do you come to, mon-
sieur ?” at length demanded the judge of
inquiry.

“It is a drawn game, M. the judge,”
replied Gevrol. “ We arc baffled for the
present. The miscreant lias taken his meas-
ures with great precaution ; but, before
night, I shall have a dozen men in pursuit.
He shall not escape us long. He has car-
ried off some table silver and some jewels.
He is lost 1 ”

“ With all that,” remarked M. Daburon,
“ we are no further advanced than we
were this morning.”

“ Sapristi 1 ” growled Gevrol. “A man
can only do what he can 1 ”

“ Confound it ! ” said Lccoq in a low
tone, perfectly audible, however, “ why is
not Perc Tiranclaire here ? ”

“What could he do more than we have
done ? ” retorted Gevrol, directing a furious
glance at his subordinate.

Lecoq stooped his head and was silent,
inwardly delighted at having wounded his
chief.

“ Who and what is this Perc Tirau-
claire V ” demanded the judge. “It seems
to me that I have heard the name, but can’t
think where.”

“ He is an extraordinary jnan 1 ” ex-
claimed Lecoq.

“ He was formerly a pawnbroker’s clerk,”
added Gevrol ; “ but he is now a rich old
fellow. His real name is Tabaret ; and he
has taken to the business of police, as
others do to painting or music, for amuse-
ment.”

“ And to augment his revenues ? ” asked
the commissary.

“ He ? ” replied Lecoq. . “ No danger of
that. He works so much for the glory of
success that he often spends money from
his own pocket. It is great amusement for
him though ! In the service we have nick-
named him * Tirauclaire,’ because of a

phrase he is in the habit of repeating.
Ah 1 he is smart, the old weasel 1 It was he
who in the case of the banker s wife,
you remember, discovered the truth, that
the lady was herself the robber.”

“ True I ” retorted Gevrol ; “and it was
he who had poor Deremc beheaded for
killing his wife ; and all the while the poor
man was innocent.”

“ We lose our time, monsieurs,” inter-
rupted the judge of inquiry. And, address-
ing himself to Lecoq, he said, —

“ Go and find Pere Tabaret. I have a
great desire to speak to him, and shall be
gh\d to see him at work here.”

Lecoq started at a run. Gevrol was
seriously humiliated.

“ You have the right to demand the ser-
vices of whom you please,” said he in a
tone of suppressed passion ; “ but I
might — ”

“ Do not annoy yourself, M. Gevrol. I
have great confidence in your ability. But
to-day we happen to differ in opinion.
You hold absolutely to your brown man in
the blouse, and I am convinced he is not
the criminal at all ! ”

“ I believe that. I am right,” replied the
chief, “ and I hope to prove it ; but I shall
find the scoundrel, be lie whom he may ! ”

“ I ask nothing better,” said M. Daburon.

“ Only if you will permit me to give — what
shall I say without failing in respect ? — a
piece of advice ? ”

“ Speak ! ”

“ I would advise you to distrust Pbre

Tabaret.”

“ Truly ? And for what reason ? ”

“ The old fellow is too passionate ; he
owes his success in the police to nothing
more or less than his invention. And, as he
is vainer than a peacock, he is apt to overdo
matters in order to make a sensation.
When in the presence of a crime like this
of to-day, for example, he pretends to be
able to explain every thing on the instant.
And he will in fact invent a history that will
be en rapport exactly with the situation. He
will pretend, unassisted, to reconstruct all
the scenes of an assassination, as a savant
who from a single bone reconstructs an
antideluvian animal. Sometimes, as in the
case of the banker’s wife, he divines cor-
rectly ; but at other times he is far out of
the way, as in the case of the tailor, the
unfortunate Dereme.”

“ I thank you for your advice,” said M.
Daburon, “ and will endeavor to profit by
it. Now, M. le commissary,” continued lie,
“ it is most important to ascertain, if possi-
ble, from what part of the country came the
Widow Lerouge.”

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

ll

The procession of witnesses marshalled
by the brigadier commenced to pass before
the judge of inquiry.

But nothing new was elicited. It was
evident that the Widow Lerouge had been
during her lifetime a singularly discrete
woman ; for, although talkative, nothing in
any waj connected with her antecedents
remained in the memory of the gossips of
Joncliere.

All the people interrogated tried obsti-
nately to impart to the judge their own
convictions and personal conjectures. Pub-
lic opinion sided with Gevrol. With one
voice, the assembly denounced the big brown
man of the grey blouse. He must surely
be the culprit. Every one remembered his
ferocious aspect, and how, struck by his
suspicious appearance, they had wisely
avoided him. He had one evening menaced
a woman, and another day beaten a child.
They could point out neither the child nor
the woman ; but no matter : these brutal acts
were notoriously public.

M. Daburon began to despair of gaining
the least enlightenment, when some one
brought a grocer of Bougival, at whose shop
the victim used to purchase her provisions,
and a child thirteen years old, who knew,
it was said, something positive.

The grocer first made her appearance.

She had heard the Widow Lerouge
speak of having a son yet living.

“ Are you quite sure of this ? ” demanded
the judge.

“As of my existence,” answered the
grocer. “ One evening, — yes, it was eve-
ing, — she was, saving your presence, a
little tipsy, — she remained in my store
more than an hour.”

“ And she said, — ”

“ I think I see her now,” continued the
grocer ; “ she was leaning against the coun-
ter near the scales. She was jesting with
a fisherman of Marly, Father Husson, who
can tell you the same ; and she called him a
fresh water sailor. ‘ My husband/ said she,
‘ would sometimes remain a couple of years
on a voyage, and used to bring me back
cocoanuts. I have a boy who is also a
sailor, like his dead father, — a sailor in the
navy.’ ”

“ Did she mention her son’s name ? ”

“ Not that evening ; but another even-
ing, when she was, if I must say it, drunk,
she told us that her son was called Jacoues,
and she had not seen him for a very long
time.”

“ Did she speak ill of her husband ? ”

“ Never 1 she only said he was jealous
and brutal, and used to beat her unmerci-
fully ; but he was a good man at bottom, and

made her life miserable. He had a weak
head, and forged ideas out of nothing. In
fact, he was a very stupid brute, but a very
good, kind man.”

“ Did her son ever come to see her while
she lived here ? ”

“ She never told me of it.”

“ Did she spend much money with you ? ”
“ As it might happen. About sixty
francs a month ; sometimes more, when she
bought some old brandy. She was good
pay, poor woman 1 ”

The grocer, knowing no more, was dis-
missed. '

The child, who was now brought forward,
belonged to parents in easy circumstances.
Tall and strong for his age, he had bright
intelligent eyes, and features expressive of
watchfulness and cunning. The presence
of the judge did not intimidate him.

“Let us hear, my boy,” said the judge,
“ what you know.”

“ Monsieur, a few days ago, — Sunday
last, — I saw a man at Madame Lerouge’s
garden-gate.”

“ At what time of the day ? ”

“ In the morning. I was going to church,
to serve the second mass.”

“ Well,” continued the judge, “and this
was a big brown man, dressed in a blouse V ”
“ No, monsieur : he was short, very fat,
and old.”

“ You are sure you are not mistaken ? ”

“ Certain, monsieur,” replied the urchin,
“ I saw hiln close, face to face ; I spoke to
him.”

“ Tell me, then, what occurred ? ”

“ Well, monsieur, I was passing, when I
saw this fat man at the gate. He appeared
very much vexed, — oh ! vexed awfully I His
face was red, or rather purple, as far as the
middle of his head, which I could see very
well ; for it was bare, and had very little
hair on it.”

“ And did he speak to you first ? ”

“ Yes, monsieur, lie saw me, and called
out, ‘ Halloa 1 little fellow 1 ’ I went up to
him ; and he asked me if I had got a good
pair of legs ? I answered, yes. Then he
took me by the ear, but without hurt-
ing me, and said, ‘ Since that is so, if you
will run an errand for me, I will give you
ten sous. Run as far as the Seine ; and,
when you reach the quay, you will see a
large sloop moored. Go on board, and ask
to see the captain, Gervais : he will be there.
Tell him that he can slip his cable, — that I
am ready.’ Then he put ten sous in my
hand ; and I went.”

“ If all the witnesses were like this bright
little fellow,” murmured the commissary,
“ what a pleasure it would be I ”

12

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ Now,” said the judge, “ tell us how you
executed your commission ? ”

“ I went to the sloop, monsieur, and found
the man, and I told him ; and that’s all.”

Gevrol, who had listened with the most
lively attention, leaned over towards the
ear of M. Daburon.

“M. le judge,” said he in a low voice,

“ will you permit me to ask the boy a few
questions ? ”

“ Certainly, M. Gevrol.”

“ Tell us, my little friend,” asked Gevrol,
“if you saw this man again, would you
know him ? ”

“Oh, yes I”

“ Then there was something remarkable
about him ? ”

“ Yes, I should think so ! his face was like
a brickbat I ”

“ And is that all ? ”

“ Well, yes, monsieur.”

“ Can you remember how he was
dressed ? had he a blouse ? ”

“ No : it was a vest. Under the arms it
had large pockets ; and from one of them
peeped out the half of a blue spotted pocket
handkerchief.”

“ How were his pantaloons ? ”

“ I do not remember them.”

“ And his under vest ?”

“ Let me see,” answered the child. “ I
don’t think he wore an undervest. And
yet, — but no, I remember he did not wear
one : he had a long cravat, fastened near his
neck by a large ring.”

“ Ah ! ” said Gevrol with an air of satis-
faction, “ you are a bright boy ; and I
wager that, if you try hard to remember,
you can find more particulars than those
you have given us.”

The boy dropped his head, and remained
silent. From the knitting of his young
brows, it was plain he was making a violent
effort of memory. “ Yes, ” cried he sud-
denly, “ I remember another thing.”

“ WhatX”

“ The man wore very large rings in his
ears.”

“ Bravo I ” cried Gevrol, “ here is an
identification complete. I shall find this
gentleman with the ear-rings again. M. the
judge may prepare a warrant for his ar-
rest. ”

“ I believe, indeed, the testimony of this
child is of the highest importance,” re-
plied M. Daburon ; and he turned to the
boy.

“ Can you tell us, my little friend, with
what this sloop was loaded ?” demanded
M. Daburon.

“ No, monsieur, I couldn’t see, because it
was decked.”

“ Which way was she going, up the river
or down ? ”

“ Neither, monsieur ; she was moored.”

“ Now think well,” said Gevrol. “ The
judge asks you which way the bow of the
sloop was turned, — towards Paris or towards
Marly ?”

“ The two ends of a sloop are alike to
me.”

The chief of police made a gesture of
disappointment.

“ At least,” said he, addressing the child
again, “ you noticed the name of the sloop ?
You can read I suppose ; you must surely
have seen the name of the vessel you went
aboard of ? ”

“ No, I didn’t see any name,” said the
little boy.

“If this sloop was moored a few steps
from the quay, ” remarked M. Dabu-
ron, “ it was probably noticed by the inhab-
itants of Bougival. ”

“ That is true,” approved the commissa-
ry.

“ Besides,” said Gevrol, “ the sailors
must have come ashore. I shall find out all
about it at the wine shop. But this Capt.
Gervais, my little friend, what was he
like?”

“ Like all the sailors hereabouts, mon-
sieur. ”

The child was preparing to depart, when
the judge recalled him.

“ Before you depart, my child, tell me,
have you spoken to any one of this meet-
ing before to-day ? ”

“ I told all to mamma, when I got back
from church, and gave her the ten sous. ”

“ And you have told us all the truth ? ”
continued the judge. “ You know that it is
a grave matter to attempt to impose on jus-
tice • she always discovers the truth ; and it
is my duty to warn you that she inflicts the
most terrible punishment upon liars. ”

The little fellow blushed, and dropped
his eyes.

“ I see,” pursued Daburon, “ that you
have concealed something from us. Don’t
you know that the police are not to be
trifled with ? ”

“ Pardon, monsieur, ” cried the boy,
bursting into tears, — “ pardon. Don’t pun-
ish me, and I will never do so again.”

“ Tell us, then, how you have deceived
us ? ”

“ It was not ten sous, monsieur, that the
man gave me, it was twenty sous. I only
gave half to mamma ; and I kept the rest to
buy marbles with.”

“ My little friend, ” interrupted the judge,
“ for this time I forgive you. But let it be
a lesson for the remainder of your life. Re-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

13

member it is vain to hide the truth ; it al-
ways comes to light ! ”

CHAPTER II.

The two last depositions awakened in
Daburon’s mind some slight gleams of hope.
In the midst of darkness, the humblest rush-
light acquires brilliancy.

“ I will go at once to Bougival, if you
approve,” suggested Gevrol.

“ Perhaps it would be as well to wait a
little, ” answered Daburon. “ This man
was seen on Sunday morning : we might
inquire into the Widow Lerouge’s move-
ments on that day.”

Three neighbors were called. They all
declared that the widow had kept her bed
all Sunday. To one woman who had
visited her, hearing that she was sick, she
said, “ Ah ! I have had this day a terrible
adventure.” Nobody at the time attached
any importance to these words.

“ The man with the rings in his ears
becomes more and more important,” said
the judge, when the women had retired.
“ To find him again is indispensable : this
you will take care of, M. Gevrol.”

“ Before eight days, I shall have him,”
replied the chief of police, “ if I have to
search every vessel on the Seine, from its
source to the ocean. I know the name of
the captain, — Gervaise. The bureau of
navigation may tell me the rest.”

He was interrupted by Lecoq, who rushed
into the house breathless.

“ Here is Pere Tabaret,” said he. “I
met him setting out. What a man ! He
wouldn’t wait for the train, but paid I don’t
know how much for a carriage ; and we
drove here in fifty minutes ! ”

Almost immediately an old man ap-
peared at the door, whose aspect bore little
resemblance to the ideal portraits of the
secret agent of police.

His round face wore an expression of per-
petual astonishment, mingled with uneasi-
ness, which would have made the fortunes of
a dozen comic actors of the “ Palais Royale.”
Scrupulously shaved, he presented a very
short chin, large and good natured lips, and
a nose disagreeably elevated, like the broad
end of a Saxe horn. His eyes, of a dull
grey, were small, bordered by rings, of scar-
let, and absolutely void of expression ; yet
they fatigued the observer by their insup-
portable restlessness. Thin hairs brushed
flat upon his head, light as the fur of a
rabbit, barely concealed his long ears,

which were large, wide, and spreading away
from the skull.

He was comfortably dressed, neat as a
new franc piece, displaying linen of daz-
zling whiteness, and wearing silk gloves
and leather gaiters. A long and massive
chain of gold, of a deplorable taste, was
twisted thrice round his neck, and fell in
cascades to his vest-pocket.

Pere Tabaret, surnamed Tiranclair,
standing at the threshold, bowed almost to
the ground, bending his old back into an
arch, and in the humblest of voices de-
manded, —

“ The judge of inquiry has deigned to
send for m%.”

“ Yes,” replied Daburon, adding under
his breath ; “ and, if you are a man of any
ability, there is at least nothing to indicate
it in your appearance.”

“ I am here,” continued the old fellow,
“completely at the service of justice.”

“ I wish to know,” replied the judge,
“ whether you cannot, with more success
than has attended our efforts, discover
some indication that may serve to put us
upon the track of the author of this atro-
cious crime. I will explain the — ”

“ Oh, I know enough of it ! ” interrupted
Pere Tabaret. “Lecoq has told me as
much as I desire to know.”

“ Nevertheless,” commenced the com-
missary, “ if you will permit me, I prefer
to proceed without receiving any informa-
tion, in order to be more fully master of
my own impressions. If you know an-
other’s opinion, it can’t help influencing your
judgment. I will, if you please, at once
commence my researches, with Lecoq’s as-
sistance.”

As the old fellow spoke, his little grey
eyes dilated, and became brilliant as car-
buncles. His face reflected an internal
satisfaction; even his wrinkles seemed to
laugh. His figure became erect, his step
almost elastic, as lie darted rather than
walked into the second chamber.

He remained there about half an hour ;
then came out running, then re-entered
and came out again ; again re-entered, and
again reappeared almost immediately. The
judge could not help comparing him to a
pointer on the scent ; restless and active, he
ran hither and thither, carrying his nose
in the air, as if to discover some subtle odor
left by the assassin. All the while he
talked loudly and with much gesticulation,
apostrophizing himself, scolding himself,
uttering little cries of triumph or self-en-
couragement. He did not allow Lecoq to
have a moment’s rest. He wanted this or
that or the other thing. He demanded pa-

14

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

per and a pencil. Then he wanted a
spade ; and finally he cried out for plaster
of Paris and a bottle of oil. With these
he left the cottage.

When more than an hour had elapsed,
the judge of inquiry began to lose patience,
and asked what had become of the amateur
detective.

“ He is on the road,” replied the briga-
dier, “ lying flat in the mud. He has mixed
the plaster'in a plate. He says he is nearly
finished, and that he is coming back pres-
ently.”

Tabaret entered almost instantly, joy-
ous, triumphant, looking at least twenty
years younger. Lecoq followed him, carry-
ing with the utmost precaution a large
pannier.

“ I have it 1 ” said he to the judge, “ com-
pletely. It is as plain as noonday. Lecoq,
my lad, put the pannier on the table.”

Gevrol at this moment returned from his
expedition equally delighted.

“ I am on the track of the man with the
rings in his ears,” said he ; “ the sloop went
down the river. I have obtained an exact
description of Capt. Gervaise.”

“ What have you done, M. Tabaret ? ”
said the judge of inquiry.

The old fellow carefully emptied upon
the table the contents of the pannier, — a
huge lump of potter’s clay, several large
sheets of paper, and three or four small
morsels of plaster yet damp. Standing
behind this table, he presented a grotesque
resemblance to a mountebank conjurer, who
in the public squares makes puddings in
hats, swallows swords, and eats fire. His
dress was in a singular state ; he was mud
to the chin.

“ In the first place,” said he, at last, in a
tone of affected modesty, “ robbery has
had nothing to do with the crime that oc-
cupies our attention.”

“ On the contrary,” — muttered Gevrol.

“ I shall prove it,” continued Pere Taba-
ret, “ by the evidence. By-and-by I shall
offer my humble opinion as to the real
motive.

“ In the second place, the assassin arrived
here before half-past nine ; that is to say,
before the rain fell. No more than M. Gev-
rol have I been able to discover traces of
muddy footsteps ; but under the table, on
the spot where his feet rested, I find dust.
We are thus assured of the hour. The
widow did not expect her visitor. She had
commenced undressing, and was about to
wind up her cuckoo clock when he
knocked.”

“ These are absolute details 1 ” cried the
commissary.

“ But easily established,” replied the
araiteur. “ Examine this cuckoo clock ; it
is one of those which run fourteen or fifteen
hours at most. Now it is more than prob-
able, it is certain, that the widow wound
it up every evening before going to bed.

“How, then, should the clock have
stopped at nine ? She must have touched
it at that hour. At the moment she
was drawing the chain, the assassin knocked.
In proof, I show this chair below the
clock, and on the seat a very plain mark
of a foot. Now look at the dress of the
victim. The waist of her gown is taken
off. In order to open the door more quick-
ly, she did not wait to put it on again, but
hastily threw an old shawl over her shoul-
ders.”

“ Sapristi ! ” exclaimed the brigadier,
evidently filled with admiration.

“The widow,” continued the old fellow,
“ knew the person who knocked. Her
haste to open the door gives rise to this
conjecture ; what follows proves it. The
assassin then gained admission without
difficulty. He was a young man, a little
above the middle height, elegantly dressed.
He wore on that evening a high hat. He
carried an umbrella, and smoked a trabu-
cos with a cigar-holder.”

“ Ridiculous 1 ” cried Gevrol. “ This is
too strong.”

“ Too strong for you perhaps,” retorted
Pfcre Tabaret. “ At all events, it is the
truth. If you have not been minute in
your examinations, there is no reason why
I shouldn’t be. I search, and I find. Too
strong, say you? Well, deign to glance
at these morsels of damp plaster. They rep-
resent the heels of the boots worn by the
assassin, of which I found a most per-
fect impression near the ditch, where
the key was picked up. On these
sheets of paper, I have marked in
outline the imprint of the foot which I
cannot take up, because it is in the gravel.

“ Lode 1 heel high, instep pronounced,
sole small and narrow, — an elegant boot,
belonging to a foot well cared for evident-
ly. Look for this impression all along the
road ; and you will find it twice repeated:
Then you will find it five times repeated
in the garden ; and these footprints prove,
by the way, that the stranger knocked not
at the door, but at the window-shutter, be-
neath which shone a gleam of light. Near
the entrance of the garden, the man made a
leap to avoid a square flower-bed ; the
point of the foot, more deeply imprinted
than usual, shows it. He leaped more than
two yards with case, proving that he is
active, and therefore young.”

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

15

Pfere Tabaret spoke now in a low voice,
but clear and penetrating; and his eye
glanced from one to the other of his audi-
tors, watching the impression ho was mak-
ing.

“Does the hat astonish you, Gevrol ? ”
pursued Pere Tabaret. “Just look at this
circle traced in the dust on the marble of
the secretary. That was where he placed
li is hat : so we arrive at the shape and
size of the crown ; and the height is, at
least, presumable. Now the assassin put
his hands on the top shelf of the cupboard,
to get at its contents. If he had been a
very tall man, he could have seen them
without touching the shelf ; and, if a very
short man, he would have stood upon a
chair ; consequently he must have been a
little above the middle height. You seem
troubled about the umbrella and the cigar-
holder; but they arc very simple. This
lump of earth preserves an admirable im-
pression, not only of the point, but even of
the little wooden shield which holds the
silk. Then as for the cigar, here is the
end of a Trabucos that I found in the ashes.
Is it bitten ? No. Has it been moistened
with saliva ? No. Then he who smoked it
used a cigar-holder.”

Lecoq was unable to conceal his enthusi-
astic admiration, and noiselessly rubbed his
hands. The commissary appeared stupe-
fied, while the judge was delighted. Gev-
rol’s face, on the contrary, was sensibly
elongated. As for the brigadier, he was
overwhelmed.

“ Now,” continued the old fellow, “ follow
me closely. We have traced the young
man into the house. How he explained his
presence at this hour, I do not know ; this
much is certain, he told the widow he had
not dined. The honest woman was de-
lighted to hear it, and at once set to work to
prepare a meal. This meal was not for
herself; for in the cupboard I find the re-
mains of her dinner. She had dined on
fish : the autopsy will confirm the truth
of this conjecture. You can see the rest
for yourself. There is but one glass on the
table, and one knife. Who was this young
man ? Evidently the widow looked upon
him as a man of rank superior to her own ;
for, in the small plate-closet is a table-cloth
suitable enough for her, but not at all good
enough for him. For her guest, she
brought out one of white linen, and much
handsomer. For him she sets this mag-
nificent glass — a present, no doubt — and
this knife with the ivory handle.”

“ That is all true,” murmured the judge,
— “ very true.”

« Now, then, wo have got the young man i

seated. He began by drinking a glass of
wine, while the widow was putting her pan
on the fire. Then, his heart failing him, ho
called for brandy, and swallowed about five
petite verres. After an internal struggle
of ten minutes (the time it must have
taken to cook the ham and eggs to the
point they have reached), the young man
arose and approached the widow, who was
leaning forward over her cooking. He
stabbed ]ier twice in the back ; but she was
not killed instantly. She half arose, seiz-
ing the assassin by the hands ; while he drew
back, lifting her rudely, and then hurling
her down in the position in which you see
her.

“ This short struggle is indicated by the
posture of the body ; for, wounded in the
back, it is on her back she ought natural-
ly to have fallen. The weapon used was
sharp and pointed, and, unless I am deceived,
was the end of a foil, broken off and sharp-
ened. By wiping the weapon upon his
victim’s skirt, the assassin leaves us this
indication. He was not, however, hurt in
the struggle, though the victim must have
clung with a death-grip to his hands ; but,
as he has not left his gray gloves,” —

“Gloves! Why, this is romance,” ex-
claimed Gevrol.

“ Have you examined the dead woman’s
finger-nails, M. Gevrol ? No. Well, do
so, and then tell me whether I am de-
ceived.

“ The woman, now dead, we come to the
object of her assassination. What did
this well-dressed young gentleman want?
Money ? valuables ? No ! no ! a hundred
times, no ! What he wanted, what he sought,
and what he found, were papers, documents,
letters, which he knew to be in the
possession of this unfortunate woman. To
find them, he has overturned every thing,
upset the cupboards, unfolded the linen,
broken open the secretary, of which he
could not find the key, and even emptied
the mattress of the bed.

“ At last he found them ; and then what
did he do ? Burned them, of course ; not
in the chimney, but in the little stove in
the front chamber. His end accomplished,
what docs he then ? He flics, carrying with
him all that he finds valuable, to mislead
pursuit, and baffle detection, by indicating
a robbery. Having bundled them together,
he wrapped these valuables in the napkin
which was to have served him at dinner;
and, blowing out the candle, he fled, locking
the door, and afterwards throwing the kev
into the ditch.

“ That is my idea of the case, M. the
judge.”

16

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ M. Tabaret,” said the jud^e, “ your
investigation is admirable ; and I am per-
suaded your inferences are correct.”

“ Ah ! ” cried Lecoq, “ is he not colos-
sal ? Papa Tiranclair 7 ”

“ Pyramidal 1 ” cried Gevrol ironically.
“ I fear, however, your well-dressed young
man must have been much embarrassed in
carrying a bundle at once so inconvenient
and so remarkable.”

“ He did not carry it a hundred leagues,”
responded Pere Tabaret. “ You may well
believe, that, to reach the railway station,
he would not risk taking the omnibus. No,
he returned on foot by the shortest way, to
the edge of the water. Now, on arriving at
the Seine, it will not be too strong, I hope,
to suppose his first care was to throw into it
this tell-tale bundle.”

“ Do you believe so, Papa Tiranclair ? ’*
demanded Gevrol.

“ I will wager on it ; and the best evidence
of my belief is, that I have sent three men,
under the surveillance of a gendarme, to
drag the Seine at the nearest spot. If they
succeed in finding the bundle, I have
promised them a recompense.”

“ From your own pocket, old enthu-
siast ? ”

“ Yes, M. Gevrol, from my own pocket.”

“ If they find this bundle, however, — ”
murmured the judge.

He was interrupted by the entrance of
a gendarme.

“ Here,”said he, — “ here is a soiled table-
napkin, filled with plate, silver, and jewels,
which these men have found ; they claim
the hundred francs’ reward, promised
them.”

Pere Tabaret took from his pocket-book
a bank bill, which he handed to the gen-
darme.

“ Now,” demanded he, ignoring M. Gevrol
with a superb disdain, “ what thinks M. the
judge of inquiry ? ”

“ That, thanks to your penetration, we
shall come to the point, — ”

He did not finish. The doctor sum-
moned to make the post mortem examina-
tion appeared.

That unpleasant task accomplished, it
only confirmed the assertions and conjec-
tures of Pere Tabaret. The doctor explained
as he had the position of the body. In his
opinion, there had been a brief but fierce
struggle. He pointed out a bluish circle,
hardly perceptible, round the neck of the
victim, produced apparently by the power-
ful grasp of the murderer ; then he declared
the Widow Lerouge had dined three hours
before being struck.

Nothing now remained except to collect

the fragments of evidence received, which
might at a later period confound the culprit.

Pere Tabaret examined with extreme
care the dead woman’s fingers ; and, using
infinite precaution, he even extracted from
beneath the nails several small particles of
gray kid. The largest of these fragments
was not above two millemetres in length ;
but their color was easily distinguishable.
He put aside also the part of the dress
upon which the assassin had wiped the
weapon. These, with the bundle recov-
ered from the Seine, and the cast of the
footprints taken by the old fellow, were all
the traces the murderer had left behind
him.

It was nothing ; but this nothing was enor-
mous in the eyes of M. Daburon : and he
had strong hopes of discovering the culprit.
The greatest obstacle to success in the un-
ravelling of mysterious crime is in mistak-
ing the motive. If the researches take at
the first step a false direction, they are
diverted further and further from the truth,
in proportion to the length they are fol-
lowed. Thanks to Pfere Tabaret, the judge
felt confident that he was in the right path.

Night had come on. The judge had noth-
ing more to do at Jonchere; but Gevrol, who
still clung to his own opinion of the guilt of
the man with the rings in his ears, declared
he would remain at Bougival. He deter-
mined to employ the evening in visiting the
different wine shops, and finding if possible
new witnesses.

At the moment of departure, after the
commissary and the entire party had re-
ceived their congee from M. Daburon, the
latter asked Pere Tabaret to accompany
him.

“Iwas^about to solicit that honor,” re-
plied the old fellow. They set out together ;
and naturally the crime which had been
discovered, and with which they were
mutually preoccupied, formed the subject
of their conversation.

“ Can we, or can we not, ascertain the
antecedents of this woman ? ” repeated
Pere Tabaret. “ All depends upon that,
after all!”

“We shall ascertain them, if the grocer
has told the truth,” replied M. Daburon.
“ If the Widow Lerouge has had a hus-
band a sailor, and there is now a son of
hers named Jacques in the navy, the
minister of marine can furnish information
that will lead to its discovery. I will write
to the minister this very night.”

They arrived at the station at Reuil, and
took their places in the train. They were
so fortunate as to secure a compartment to
themselves.

\

i noi

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

17

But Pere Tabaret was nbt disposed for
-conversation. He reflected, he sought, he
combined ; and in his face might easily be
read the working of his thoughts. The
judge felt singularly attracted by this ec-
centric old man, whose very original taste
had led him to devote his services to the bu-
reau of secret police in the Rue Jerusalem.

“ M. Tabaret,” demanded he brusquely,
M have you been long associated with the
police V ”

“ Nine years, M. the judge, — more than
nine years ; and permit me to confess I am
a little surprised that you have never be-
fore heard of me.”

“I certainly know you by reputation,”
answered M. Daburon ; “ and it was in con-
sequence of hearing of your talent that
the excellent idea of asking your assis-
tance occurred to me. But what was
the occasion of your adopting this employ-
ment ? ”

“ Chagrin, M. the judge, isolation,
ennui. Ah ! I have not always been
happy ! ”

“ I hear, though, that you are rich.”

The old fellow heaved a deep sigh, as he
recalled what seemed to him the cruelest
deception. “ I am well off, monsieur,” re-
plied he ; “ but I have not always been.
Until I was forty-five years old, my life was
a series of absurd and useless privations.
I had a father who ruined my youth, wasted
my manhood, antkmade me the most pitia-
ble of human creatures.”

There are men who can never divest
themselves of their professional habits.
M. Daburon was at all times and seasons a
little of a judge of inquiry.

“ How, M. Tabaret, ” said he, “ your
father the author of your misfortunes ? ”

“ Alas, yes, monsieur ! I have forgiven
him long since ; but once I cursed him.
In the first transports of my resentment, I
heaped upon his memory all the injuries
that can be inspired by the most violent
hatredt Even now, when I think, — but I
will confide to you my history M. Daburon.

“ When I was five and twenty years of
age, I was earning two thousand francs a
year, as clerk in a pawnbroker’s. One
morning my father entered my apartment,
and announced to me abruptly that he was
ruined, and wanted food and shelter. He
appeared in despair, and declared he had
done with life. I loved my father. Nat-
urally, I strove to reassure him. I boasted
of my situation, and explained to him at
some length, that, while I earned the means
of living, he should want for nothing ; and,
to commence, I insisted that henceforth we
should live together. No sooner said than

done ; and during twenty years, the best
twenty years of my life, I was encumbered
with the old, — ”

“ How ? you repent of your filial conduct,
M. Tabaret ? ”

“ Yes, I do repent of it ; that is to say, I
wish the old wretch had received his des-
erts ; for then he would have been poisoned
by the bread which I gave him.”

Daburon was unable to repress a gesture
of surprise, which did not escape the old
fellow’s notice.

“ Hear, before you condemn me,” said he.
“ There I was at twenty-five, imposing upon
myself the severest privations for sake of
my father, — no more friends,, no more flir-
tations, nothing. In the evenings, to aug-
ment our scanty revenues, I worked at copy-
ing law papers for a notary. I denied my-
self even the luxury of a cigar. Notwith-
standing, the old skinflint complained with-
out ceasing. He regretted his lost fortune.
He wanted pocket-money. He wanted this,
he wanted that. My utmost exertions failed
to satisfy him. Ah, heaven alone knows
what I have suffered ! I was not born to
live alone to old age, like a dog. I longed
for the pleasures of a home and a family.
My dream of happiness was marriage, — an
adored wife, by whom I might be loved a
little, innocent little ones gambolling about
my knees ; but pshaw ! when such thoughts
entered my heart and forced a tear or two
from my eyes, I rebelled against myself. I
said : ‘ My lad, when you earn but three
thousand francs a year, and have an old
and cherished father to support, it is your
duty to stifle such desires, and remain a
bachelor.’ In the mean time, I fell in love.
Hold, do not laugh at me. I was but
thirty years of age then ; and, old' and ugly
as I am now, I was a good looking fellow at
that time. She, — she was called Hortense.
I could not marry her and continue to pro-
vide for him. Who can tell what became
of her ? I lost sight of her. She waited
long ; but, alas ! she was pretty and poor.
When my father died, and let me free, I
was an old man. The miserable, miserly
old, — ”

“ M. Tabaret ! ” interrupted the judge,
— “ M. Tabaret ! ”

“ Yes, yes, monsieur, I have forgiven him
long ago. I am a good Christian ; but you
will understand my anger when I tell you,
the day of his death, looking in his secre-
tary in the hope of finding enough to bury
the old hypocrite, I found a memorandum
of twenty thousand francs of rent ! ”

“ He was rich, then ? ”

“ Yes, very rich ; for that was not all : he
owned near Orleans a property leased for
2

18

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

six thousand francs a year. He owned,
besides, the house I now live in, where we
lived together ; and I fool, sot, imbecile,
stupid animal that I was, used to pay the
rent every three months to the con-
cierge I ”

“ Cruel fortune ! ” M. Daburon could
not help saying.

“ Was it not, monsieur? I was robbing
myself of my own money ! To crown the
absurdity, he left a testament, wherein he
declared he had no other aim in view, in
thus acting, than my advantage. He
wished, he said, to habituate me to habits of
good order and economy, and keep me from
the commission of follies. And so, monsieur,
I was at forty-five a rich man, who for
twenty years could not accuse himself of
having expended uselessly a single sou.
In short, he had speculated on my good
heart to rob me of my life's happiness.
Bah ! it is enough to disgust the human
race with filial piety.”

M. Tabaret’s anger, albeit very real, was
so highly ludicrous in its effect upon his
features and gesture that the judge had
much difficulty to restrain his laughter,
although touched with pity at the recital.

“ After all,” said he, “ this fortune ought
to give you pleasure.”

“ No, monsieur, it came too late. Of what
avail to have the bread when one has no
longer the teeth ?

“ The best part of life was gone, the
age of happiness had passed. I resigned
my situation at the pawnbroker’s, to make
way for some other poor devil, and became
a gentleman at large. At the end of a
month, I was ennuied to death ; and, to re-
place the interest in life I despaired of
gaining, I resolved to give myself a passion,
a hobby, a mania. I became a collector of
books. You think perhaps, monsieur, that
to take an interest in books a man must
have studied, must be learned ? ”

“ No, monsieur ; but he must have money.
I am acquainted with an illustrious biblo-
maniac who actually cannot read his own
name.”

“ It is very possible, monsieur : but I could
read ; and I read all the books I bought, and
mine is an unique collection. It consists
of all the works I could find, far or near,
that related aught concerning the police.
Memoirs, reports, discourses, letters, — all
were delightful to me ; and I devoured them
as Don Quixote did the books of chiv-
alry.

“ Reading these adventures so exciting
and so real, I became little by little attrac”
ted towards this mysterious power which
from the obscurity of the Rue Jerusalem

watches over and protects society from
fraud and violence, — that unseen hand
that lifts the most impervious veil ; that
invisible eye that sees through every plot ;
that unknown intelligence that divines
even the secrets of men’s hearts, knows to
a grain weight the worth of women’s repu-
tation and the price of men’s integrity ;
that universal confidant who keeps in her
secret record the most terrible as well as
the most shameful confessions !

“In reading the memoirs of celebrated
police agents (more attractive matter to
me than the fables of our best authors), I
became inspired by an enthusiastic admi-
ration for those men, so untiring in pursuit,
so fertile in expedient, who follow crime to
his stronghold as relentlessly as the sav-
ages of Cooper pursue their enemies in the
depths of the American forest. The desire
seized me to become a wheel of this admir-
able machine, — a small assistance in the
punishment of crime and the triumph of
innocence. I have made the essay ; and I
am proud to say, monsieur, I find I have not
mistaken my vocation.”

“ Then this employment pleases you V ”

“I owe to it, monsieur, my liveliest enjoy-
ments. Adieu ennui ! Since I have aban-
doned the pursuit of old worm-eaten books
for this to which I am equal, I am happy.

I shrug the shoulder when I see a foolish
fellow pay twenty-five francs for the right
of hunting a hare. What a prize ! Give me
the hunting of a man ! That calls the facul-
ties into play, and the victory is not inglori-
ous ! The game in my sport is worth the
hunter. He has against him intelligence,
force, and cunning. The arms are nearly
equal. Ah ! if people knew the excitement
of these parties of hide and seek which are
played between the criminal and the detec-
tive, everybody would be wanting employ-
ment at the bureau of secret police. The
misfortune is, that the art is being lost be-
cause fine crimes are rare. The race of
strong criminals, fearless and ingenious, has
given place to a mob of vulgar pickers and
stealers, hardly worth hunting after, — blun-
derers as well as. cowards, who sign their
names to their misdeeds, and even leave
you their cartes de visite. There is no
merit in catching them : their work examin-
ed, nothing remains but their arrest.”

“ It seems to me,” said M. Daburon, smil-
ing, “ that our assassin is not such a bun-
gler.”

“ This case, monsieur, is an exception ;
and I shall have the greater delight in tra-
cing him : and I will trace him, though I
should compromise myself in the pursuit.
For I ought to confess, M. le judge,” added

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

19

he with a ludicrous embarrassment, “ that I
do not boast to my friends of my exploits,
but conceal them as carefully as possible.
They would join hands with me less warm-
ly did they know that Tiranclair acid Tab-
aret are one.”

Insensibly the crime became again the sub-
ject of conversation. It was agreed, that,
in the morning, Pere Tabaret should instal
himself at Bougival. He could by hard work
examine all the peasants in the country in
eight days. On his side the judge prom-
ised to keep him advised of the least evi-
dence that transpired, and recall him, if by
any accident he should procure the papers
of the Widow Lerouge.

“ To you, M. Tabaret, ” said the judge
in conclusion, “I shall be always visible.
If you have any thing to speak of, do not
hesitate to come at night as well as during
the day. I rarely go abroad ; and you will
always find me at home, Rue Jacob. When
not in my office at the Palais de Justice, I
shall leave orders for your admittance when-
ever you present yourself. ”

The train entered the depot at this mo-
ment. M. Daburon, having called a hack-
ney coach, offered a place to Pere Tabaret.
The old fellow declined.

“ It is not worth while,” replied he ; “ for
I live, as I have had the honor to tell you,
Rue St. Lazare, two steps from this. ”

“ Till to-morrow, then ! ” said M. Dabu-
ron.

“ Till to-morrow,” replied P&re Tabaret ;
and he added, “We shall find him ! ”

CHAPTER IH.

PfeitE Tabaret’s dwelling was in truth, as
he said, not four minutes’ walk from the rail-
way terminus of St. Lazare. He was the
owner of the property, — a fine house, care-
fully kept, and which must have yielded a
fine revenue, although the rents on the quar-
ter were not extravagant.

The house being much too large for the old
fellow, he occupied only the ground floor, —
a suite of handsome apartments, well ar-
ranged and comfortably furnished, of which
the principal ornament was his collection
of books. He lived very simply from taste
as well as habit, served by an old domestic,
to whom on great occasions the portress lent
a helping hand.

Nothing in the house gave the slightest
indication of the avocations of its propri-
etor. Besides, even the humblest agent of
police would be expected to possess a de-

gree of acuteness for which no one gave
M. Tabaret credit. Indeed, they mistook
for incipient idiotcy his continual absence
of mind.

It is true that all who knew him remarked
the singularity of his habits. His constant
expeditions had given to his proceedings an
appearance at once eccentric and myste-
rious. Never was young libertine more ir-
regular in his habits than this old man.
He came or failed to come to his meals, ate
it mattered not what or at what hour. He
went out at every hour of the day and night,
often slept abroad, and even disappeared
for entire weeks at a time. Then he re-
ceived the strangest visitors, — odd looking
men of suspicious appearance, and fellows
of ill-favored and sinister aspect.

This irregular way of life had robbed the
old fellow of some consideration. Many be-
lieved they saw in him a shameless libertine,
who dispensed his revenues in disreputable
places of amusement. They exclaimed,
“ Is it not a shame, a man of that age ? ”

He was aware of these reports, and
laughed at them. This did not, however,
prevent many of his acquaintances from
seeking his society and paying court to him.
When invited to dinner, he almost invaria-
bly refused.

He saw but little of his tenants, with one
exception, where he cultivated the greatest
intimacy, so great indeed that he was
almost as much at home in his neighbor’s
apartments as his own. This exception
was made in favor of a widow lady, who
had for more than fifteen years occupied
the third floor. She was called Madame
Gerdy, and lived with her son Noel, whom
she worshipped.

Noel Gerdy was a man thirty-three years
of age, and older in appearance, tall and
well-made, with a noble and intelligent
face, large black eyes, and black hair which
curled naturally. An advocate, he passed
for having great talent, and greater indus-
try, and had already gained a certain
amount of notoriety. An obstinate worker,
cold and meditative, devoted to his profes-
sion, he affected, with some ostentation,
perhaps, a great rigidity of principle, and
austerity of manners.

In Madame Gerdy’s family, Pere Tabaret
almost believed himself included. He
looked upon himself as a parent, and upon
Noel as a son. In spite of her fifty years,
he had often thought of asking the hand
of this charming widow, and was restrained
less by the fear of a refusal than its conse-
quences. To propose and be rejected
would sever the existing relations, so pleas-
urable to him. However, he had in his

2U

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

will, which was deposited with his notary,
constituted this young advocate his sole
legatee ; with the sole condition of paying
an annual prize of two thousand francs to
the police agent who during the year had
drawn to light the most obscure and myste-
rious crime.

Short as was the distance to his house,
P&re Tabaret was a good quarter of an
hour in reaching it. On leaving the judge
his thoughts reverted to the scene of the
murder ; and, so blinded was the old fellow
to external objects, that the passers by were
obliged to push him aside in order to pur-
sue their way : thus his progress was a
slow one.

He repeated to himself for the fiftieth
time the words of the Widow Lerouge, as
reported by the milk-maid, “If I wished
for any thing more, I could have it.”

“ All is in that,” murmured he. “ The
Widow Lerouge possessed some important
secret, which persons rich and powerful
had the strongest motives for concealing.
This secret was her fortune ; by means of
this she made her powerful friends sing to
her tune. She has either threatened or
wearied them, and they have silenced her
forever 1 But of what nature was this se-
cret, and how did she become possessed of
it ? Might she not in her youth have been
a servant in some great family, where she
has seen, heard, or surprised something.
What ? Evidently there is a woman at
the bottom. May she not have assisted
her mistress in some intrigue? What
more probable ? And in that case the
affair becomes complicated. Not only
must the woman be found, but the lover ;
for it is the lover who has moved in this
affair. It must be, or I am deceived, a
noble personage. A man of inferior rank
would have paid the assassin. This man
has not hung back ; he himself has struck,
avoiding the mistake of an accomplice.
He is a courageous man, full of audacity
and coolness ; for the crime has been ad-
mirably executed.

“ The gallant left nothing behind of a
nature to compromise him seriously ; but
lor me, Gevrol would have seen in the
assassination the work of a robber, and
overlooked the real motive for the crime !
No,” continued the good man, “ it must be
the issue of an amour. Time will show.”

Pere Tabaret mounted the steps in front
of his house. The portress, seated in her
loge, and chatting with her husband, saw
him through the window by the light of
the lamp which hung over the door.

“ Hold,” said the porter, “ here is the
proprietor returned.”

“ So it seems,” returned the portress.
“ His princess does not want him this even-
ing. He looks troubled about something.”

“ It is positively indecent,” said the por-
ter, “ for a man of his years to act in the
manner he does. Oh ! he’s got softening
of the brain. One of these fine mornings he
will find his way to the insane asylum in
a straight waistcoat. ”

“ Look at him now ! ” interrupted the
portress, — “ look at him now, in the open
street ! ”

The old fellow had stopped at the ex-
tremity of the porch. He had taken off his
hat, and, while talking to himself, gesticu-
lated violently.

“ No,” said he to himself, “ I have not
yet laid hold of the clew ; but I am near it.
I burn ; but I am not at the fire yet.”

Admitted by the portress, he passed on
to the door of his apartments, of which he
rang the bell, forgetting that he had his
pass-key in his pocket. His housekeeper
came and opened it.

“ Hey day, monsieur. Is it you, and at
this hour ? ”

“ Hey day, madame. And what of that ? ”
demanded the old fellow.

“ Do you know,” said the servant, “ that
it is half-past eight o’clock ? I thought you
were not coming back this evening Have
you dined ? ”

“ No, not yet.”

“ Fortunately I have kept your dinner
warm. You can sit down to table.”

Pere Tabaret seated himself, and was
helped to soup ; but, mounting his hobby-
horse again, he forgot to eat, and remained
arrested by an idea, his spoon in the air.

“He is certainly touched in the head,”
thought. Mannette. “ Look at that stupid
air. Who would act in such a manner that
was in his senses ? ”

She struck him on the shoulder, bawling
in his ear, as if he were deaf, —

“You do not eat. Are you not hun-
gry ? ”

“ Yes, yes,” answered he, trying me-
chanically to escape the voice that sounded
in his ears, “ I am very hungry ; for since
morning I have been obliged ” —

He interrupted himself, remaining with
his mouth open, his eyes fixed on vacancy.

“ You have been obliged — ? ” repeated
Mannette.

“ Thunder 1 ” cried he, raising his
clenched hands towards the ceiling, —
“ thunder of heaven 1 I have it now.”

His movement was so violent and s.ud-
den that the housekeeper was alarmed, and
retired to the further end of the room', near
I the door.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

21

“Yes,” continued he, “it is certain
there is a child ! ”

Mannette approached quickly.

“ An infant ? ” she asked in astonish-
ment.

“ Ah, so,” cried he in a furious tone.
“ What are you doing there ? Has your
hardihood come to this that you pick up
the words which escape me ? Do me the
favor to retire to your kitchen, and stay
there until I call you.”

“ He is going crazy ! ” thought Mann-
ette, as she disappeared very quickly.

Pere Tabaret returned to the table. The
soup was completely cold; but he swal-
lowed it in large spoonfuls, without re-
marking it.

“ Stupid ! ” said he to himself. “ Why
did I not think of it before ? Poor human-
ity ! I am growing old ; and my toils are
less sharp than they used to be. But it is
clear as the day : the circumstances all
point to that conclusion.”

He rapped with his spoon upon the
table : the servant reappeared.

“ The roast,” demanded he, “ and leave
me to myself.”

“ Yes,” continued he, furiously carving
a leg of Presale mutton, — “ yes, there was
an infant; and here is the history. The
Widow Lerouge, when a young woman, is in
the service of a great lady, immensely rich.
Her husband, a sailor, probably had de-
parted on a long voyage. The lady had
a lover — found herself enceinte. She
confided in the Widow Lerouge, and, with
her assistance, accomplished a clandestine
accouchement .”

He called again.

“ Mannette, the desert, and get out ! ”

Certainly such a master was unworthy
of so excellent a cook as Mannette. He
would have been puzzled to say what he
had eaten for dinner, or even what he was
eating at this moment ; it was a preserve of
pears.

“ But what,” murmured he, “ has become
of the child ? Has it been destroyed ? No ;
for the Widow Lerouge, an accomplice in
an infanticide, would be no longer formid-
able. The child has been preserved, and
confided to the care of our widow, by whom
it has been reared. They have been able
to take the infant away from her, but not
the proofs of its birth and its existence.
Here is the opening. The father is the
man of the fine carriage ; the mother is the
lady who came with the handsome young
man. Ha ! ha ! I can well believe the
dear old dame wanted for nothing. She
had a secret worth a farm in Brie. But
the old lady was extravagant; her ex-

penses and her demands have increased
year by year. Poor humanity ! She has
leaned upon the staff too heavily, and bro-
ken it. She has threatened. They have
been frightened, and said, ‘ Let there be an
end of this ! ’ But who has charged him-
self with the commission ? The papa ?
No : he is too old. By jupiter 1 the son, —
the child himself! He would save his
mother, the brave boy ! He has slain the
witness, and burnt the proofs ! ”

Mannette all this time, her ear to the
keyhole, listened with all her soul ; from
time to time she gleaned a word, an oath,
the noise of a blow upon the table ; but that
was all.

“ For certain,” thought she, “ his women
are running in his head.”

Her curiosity overcame her prudence.
Hearing no more, she ventured to open the
door a little way. The old fellow caught
her in the very act.

“ Monsieur wants his coffee ? ” stam-
mered she timidly.

“ Yes, you may bring it to me,” he an-
swered.

He attempted to swallow his coffee at a
gulp, but scalded himself so severely that
the pain brought him suddenly from specu-
lation to reality.

“ Thunder ! ” grumbled he ; “ but it is
hot ! Devil take the case ! it has set me
beside myself. They are right in the of-
fice, when they say I take too strong an in-
terest in the investigations* Who but I
should have, by the sole exercise of obser-
vation and reason, established the whole his-
tory of the assassination ? Certainly not
Gevrol, poor man ! He must, if he has any
professional feeling, be deeply humiliated.
Shall I seek M. Daburon ? No, not yet. I
must sift to the bottom all the particulars,
and arrange my ideas systematically be-
fore meeting him again. Upon the other
hand, if I sit here alone, this history will
keep me in a fever of speculation. My
faith ! I will call upon Madame Gerdy :
she has been ailing for some days. I will
have a chat with Noel, and that will
brighten me up a little.”

He got up from the table, and took his
hat and cane.

“ Monsieur is going out ? ” demanded
Mannette.

“ Yes.”

“ Monsieur will not return until late ? ”

“ Possibly.”

“ But monsieur will return ? ”

“ I do not know.”

One minute later Pere Tabaret rang at
his friend Madame Gerdy’s apartments.

Madame Gerdy lived in respectable

22

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

style. She possessed a competence ; and I
her son’s business, already large, had made
it a fortune. She had few acquaintances,
and, with the exception of one or two
friends, occasionally invited to dinner, re-
ceived no visitors. During the fifteen
years that Pere Tabaret came familiarly
to the house, he had encountered only the
curate of the parish, an old professor, and
Madame Gerdy’s brother, a colonel retired
from service.

When these three visitors called upon
the same evening, an event somewhat rare,
they played at “ Boston,” or made a party
at piquet. Noel, however, seldom re-
mained in the salon, but shut himself up
after dinner in his study, and immersed
himself in his law papers. He was sup-
posed to work far into the night. Often in
winter his lamp was not extinguished be-
fore dawn.

Mother and son absolutely lived for one
another, as all who knew them took
pleasure in repeating.

They loved and honored Noel for the
care he bestowed upon his mother, — for
his more than filial devotion, — for the sac-
rifices which all supposed he made in living
at his age like an old man.

The neighbors were in the habit of con-
trasting the conduct of this exemplary
young man with that of Pere Tabaret, the
incorrigible old rake, the gallant in the
peruke.

As for Madame Gerdv, she saw nothing
but her son in all the world. Her love had
actually taken the form of worship. In
Noel, she believed she saw united all the
pl$rsical and moral perfections. To her he
seemed of a superior order to the rest of
humanity. If he spoke, she listened and
was silent : his word was a command, his
advice a decree of Providence. To care
for her son, study his tastes, anticipate his
wishes, was the sole aim of her life. Noel
was her existence.

She was a mother.

“ Is Madame Gerdy visible ? ” demanded
Pere Tabaret of the young girl who
opened the door ; and, without waiting for
an answer, he walked into the room like a
man assured that his presence cannot be
inopportune, and ought to be agreeable.

A single lamp gave light to the salon,
which was not in its accustomed order.
The marble-top table, usually in the
middle of the room, was rolled into a cor-
ner. Madame Gerdy’s large arm-chair
was near the window : a newspaper, all
crumpled, lay before it on the carpet.

The old amateur took in the whole at a
glance.

“ Has any accident occurred ? ” demand-
ed he of the young girl.

“ Do not speak to me, monsieur : we have
had such a fright ! oh, what a fright ! ”

“ What was it ? speak quickly ! ”

“ You know that madame has been ail-
ing for more than a month. She Jhas eaten
I may say almost nothing; this morning,
even, she said to me ” —

“ Well, well ! but this evening ? ”

“ After dinner, madame came into the
salon as usual. She sat down and took up
one of M. Noel’s newspapers. Scarcely
had she began to read, when she uttered a
great cry, — oh, a terrible cry, monsieur !
We ran into the salon, and found madame
where she had fallen upon the carpet as if
dead. M. Noel raised her in his arms, and
carried her into her chamber. I wanted
to fetch a doctor ; but he said there was no
need : he knew what was the matter with
her.”

“ And how is she now ? ”

“ She has come to her senses ; that is to
say ; I suppose so ; for M. Noel made me
leave the room. All that I do know is, that
she kept talking all the time, and talking
very loudly too ; for I heard her say, — Ah,
monsieur, but it is all so very strange ! ”

“ What is strange ? ”

“ What I heard Madame Gerdy say to
M. Noel.”

“ Ah ha 1 my belle ! ” sneered Pere
Tabaret ; “ so you listen at key-holes, do
you ? ”

“No, monsieur! no indeed, I swear to
you ; but madame cried out like one lost.
She said,” —

“ My girl,” said Pere Tabaret, “ one
never hears any thing good through key-
holes. Mannette can tell you as much.”

The poor girl, thoroughly confused,
sought to excuse herself.

“ Enough, enough ! ” said the good man.
“ Return to your work : you need not dis-
turb M. Noel ; I can wait for him very
well here.”

And, satisfied with the reproof he had ad-
ministered, he picked up the newspaper,
and installed himself in the chimney-corner,
placing the lamp so as to read with ease.

A minute had scarcely elapsed when he
in his turn bounded in his chair, and ut-
tered a cry of instinctive terror and sur-
prise.

These were the first words that met his
eye.

“ A horrible crime has plunged in grief
and consternation the little village of La
Jonchere. A poor widow, named Lerouge,
who enjoyed the general esteem and love
of the community, has been assassinated

THE WIDOW LE ROUGE.

23

in her own house. The officers of the law
have made the usual preliminary investiga-
tions ; and, from the information we have
been able to gather, we believe justice is
already on the track of the authors of this
dastardly crime.”

“ Thunder 1 ” cried Pere Tabaret to him-
self, “ can it be that Madame Gerdy ? ” —

The idea was but a gleam of lightning,
dismissed as soon as formed : he fell
back into the arm-chair, and, raising his
shoulders, murmured, —

“ This affair of Jonchere is driving me
out of my senses ! I can think of nothing
but this ’infernal Widow Lerouge. I see
her now in every thing.”

In the mean while, an uncontrollable curi-
osity made him peruse the entire news-
paper. He found nothing, with the excep-
tion of these lines, to justify or explain even
the slightest emotion.

“ It is an extremely singular coincidence,
at the same time,” thought the incorrigible
police agent. Then, remarking that the
newspaper was slightly torn at the lower
part, and crushed, as if by a convulsive
grasp, he repeated, —

“ It is strange ! ”

At this moment the door of Madame
Gerdy’s room opened, and Noel appeared
on the threshold.

Without doubt the accident to his moth-
er had greatly excited him ; for he was very
pale : and his countenance, ordinarily so
calm, wore an expression of profound sor-
row. He appeared surprised to see Pere
Tabaret.

“ Ah, my dear Noel 1 ” cried the old fel-
low. “ Calm my inquietude. How is your
mother ? ”

“ Madame Gerdy is as well as can be ex-
pected.”

“ Madame Gerdy ! ” repeated the old fel-
low with an air of astonishment ; but he
continued, “ It is plain you have been seri-
ously alarmed.”

“ In truth,” replied the advocate, seating
himself, “ I have experienced a rude
shock.”

Noel was making visibly the greatest
efforts to appear calm, to listen to the old
fellow, and to answer him. Pere Tabaret,
as much disquieted on his side, perceived
nothing.

“ At least, my dear boy,” said he, “ tell me
how this happened ? ”

The young man hesitated a moment, as
if consulting with himself. No doubt he
was unprepared for this point blank ques-
tion, and knew not what answer to make ;
at last he replied, —

“ Madame Gerdy has suffered a severe

shock in learning from a paragraph in this
newspaper that a woman in whom she
takes a strong interest has been assassina-
ted.”

“ Ah ! ” cried Pere Tabaret.

The old fellow was in a fever of embar-
rassment. He wanted to question Noel, but
was restrained by the fear of revealing the
secret of his association with the police.
Indeed he had almost betrayed himself by
the eagerness with which he exclaimed, —

“ What ! your mother knew the Widow
Lerouge ?*”

By an effort he restrained himself, and
with difficulty dissembled his satisfaction ;
for he was delighted to find himself so un-
expectedly on the trace of the antecedents
of the victim of La Jonchere.

“ She was,” continued Noel, “ the slave
of Madame Gerdy, devoted to her body
and soul ! She would have thrown herself
into the fire at a sign from her hand.”

“ Then you, my dear friend, you knew
this honest woman ? ”

“ I have not seen her for a long time,”
replied Noel ; “ but I knew her welj ; I
ought even to say I loved her tenderly.
She was my nurse.”

“ She, this woman ? ” stammered Pere
Tabaret.

This time he was thunderstruck. The
Widow Lerouge Noel’s nurse ? He was
playing with fortune. Providence had
evidently chosen him for its instrument,
and was leading him by the hand. He
was about to obtain all the information, in
one half-hour, which he had almost de-
spaired of ever procuring. He remained
seated before Noel stunned and speechless.
At length he' remembered, that, unless he
would compromise himself, he must break
the silence.

“ It is a great misfortune,” murmured he.

“ For Madame Gerdy, I know nothing
of that; but, for me, it is an overwhelming
misfortune ! I am struck to the heart by
the blow which has slain this poor woman.
Her death, M. Tabaret, has annihilated
my dreams of the future, and overthrown
my most cherished hopes. I have to per-
form a solemn duty, — to avenge myself
for cruel outrages. Her death breaks the
weapon in my hands, and reduces me to
despair, to impotence. Alas ! I am indeed
unfortunate.”

“ You unfortunate ? ” cried Pere Taba-
ret, singularly affected by the sadness of
his dear Noel. “ In heaven’s name, what
has happened to you ? ”

“ I suffer,” murmured the advocate, “not
only from injustice that can never be re-
paired, but from dread of calumny that

24

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

cannot be repudiated. I am defenceless.
I shall be accused of inventing falsehood,
of being an ambitious intriguer, having no
regard for truth, no scruples of con-
science.”

Pere Tabaret was puzzled. What con-
nection could possibly exist between Noel’s
honor and the assassination at Jonchbre?
His brain was in a whirl. A thousand
troubled and confused ideas jostled one an-
other in inextricable confusion.

“ Come, come, Noel,” said he, “ collect
yourself. Calumny threatens you ? Non-
sense ! Have you not friends ? am I not
here ? Have confidence in me. It will be
strange, indeed, if between us two — ”

The advocate started to his feet, in-
flamed by a sudden resolution.

“ Yes,” interrupted he, “ you shall know
the secret that is stifling me. The role I
have imposed upon myself irritates and
confounds me. I have need of a friend to
console, a counsellor to advise me ; for one
is a bad judge of his own cause : and this
crime has plunged me into an abyss of hesi-
tation.”

“ You know,” replied Pere Tabaret, “ that
I regard you as a son. Command me, my
dear Noel, as if I were indeed your father.”

“ Know then,” commenced the advocate,
— “ but no, not here : what I have to say
must not be overheard. Let us go into my
study.”

CHAPTER IV.

When Noel and Pere Tabaret were seat-
ed face to face in the small apartment de-
voted to Noel’s business, and the door had
been carefully locked, the old fellow began
to feel uneasy.

“ If your mother should require any
thing,” said he.

“If Madame Gerdy rings,” replied the
young man, “ the servant will attend to her
./ants.”

This indifference, this coldness, confound-
ed Pere Tabaret, accustomed as he was
to the interchange of affection between
mother and son.

“For heaven’s sake, Noel,” said he,
‘ calm yourself. Do not allow yourself to
be overcome by a feeling of irritation. You
have, I see, some little pique against your
mother, which will be forgotten to-morrow.
Don’t speak of her in this icy tone ; but tell
me what you mean by calling her Madame
Gerdy?”

“ What I mean ? ” replied the advocate
in a hollow tone, — “ what I mean ? ”

He quitted his arm-chair, took several
strides across the floor of the little cham-
ber, returned to his place near the old fel-
low, and said, —

“ Because, M. Tabaret, Madame Gerdy is
not my mother 1 ”

This sentence fell like a blow of a heavy
club on the head of the amateur r he was
paralyzed.

“ Oh ! ” said he, in the tone one assumes
when rejecting an absurd proposition, “ do
you dream of what you say, Noel ? Is it
credible ? Is it probable ? ”

“It is improbable,” replied Noel with
peculiar emphasis : “ it is incredible, if you
will ; but it is true. For thirty-three years,
ever since my birth, this woman has played
a most marvellous and unworthy comedy,
to ennoble and enrich her son, — for she has
a son, — and to despoil, to plunder me ! ”

“ My friend,” — commenced Pere Taba-
ret, who in the background of the picture
presented by this singular revelation saw
again the phantom of the murdered Widow
Lerouge.

But Noel heard not, and seemed hardly
in a state to hear. The young man, usually
so cold, so self-contained, could not control
his anger. At the sound of his own voice,
he became animated, as a good horse might
at the jingling of his harness.

* “ Was ever man,” continued he, “ more
cruelly deceived, more miserably duped,
than I have been, — I who have so loved
this woman ? How I have sought for evi-
dences of affection to lavish upon her, who
was sacrificing me to her own selfish ambi-
tion for her son 1 How she has laughed at
me ! Her infamy dates from the moment
when for the first time she took me on her
knees ; and, until these few days past, she
has sustained without faltering her execra-
ble role : her love for me, hypocrisy ! her
devotion falsehood ! her caresses lies. And
how I have worshipped her ! Ah ! why
can I not recall the innocent kisses of my
childhood, the devotion of my youth, the
sacrifices of my manhood, given in ex-
change for her Judas’ kisses? And for
what was all this heroism of deception, this
caution, this duplicity? To betray me,
more securely to despoil me; to rob me;
to give to her illegitimate offspring all that
lawfully appertained to me, — a noble name,
a princely inheritance ! ”

“ We are burning 1 ” thought Pere Taba-
ret, who was fast relapsing into the collab-
orateur of M. Gevrol ; then aloud he said, —
“ This is terribly serious, my dear Noel.
To credit what you have said, we must be-
lieve Madame Gerdy possessed of an
amount of audacity and ability rarely united

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

25

in one individual. She must have be^n as-
sisted, advised, compelled perhaps. Who
have been her accomplices ? She could
never have accomplished this herself ; her
husband perhaps himself? ”

“ Her husband ! ” interrupted Noel, with
a bitter laugh. “ Ah ! you have believed
her a widow. Pshaw! She never had a
husband. Pbre Gerdy never had an exis-
tence. I am illegitimate, my dear Tabaret,
thrice base born, — Noel, son of a femme
convert, and an unknown father ! ”

“Ah ! ” cried the old fellow ; “ this then is
the occasion of your marriage with Made-
moiselle Levernois being delayed these four
years ? ”

“ Yes, my friend, that was the cause. And
what misfortunes might have been averted
by this marriage with a young girl whom I
love ! Had I wedded her before making this
abominable discovery, I should not have
wasted all my affection on her that I have
called my mother. When she told me I was
not the son of this imaginary individual,
this M. Gerdy, she wept, she accused her-
self, she seemed ready to die of grief and
shame ; and I, poor fool ! dry her tears, ex-
cuse her to her own eyes, console her with
my caresses ! No, she had no husband :
such women have no husbands. She was
the Count de Commarin’s mistress ; and, on
the day when he quitted her, he threw to
her three hundred thousand francs, the price
of her degradation ! ”

Noel would have continued to pour forth
these furious denunciations ; but his volubil-
ity was arrested by the old fellow. He
felt he was coming to a history in all
points similar to that which he had imag-
ined; and his impatience to gratify his
vanity, in discovering how .nearly he had
divined the facts, made him almost forget
to express any sympathy for his friend’s
misfortunes.

“ My dear boy,” said he, “ let us not
digress. You ask me for advice ; and I am
perhaps the best adviser you could have
chosen. Come, then, to the point. How
have you learned this ? Have you proofs
of what you state ? where are they ? ”

The decided tone of the old fellow would
no doubt have awakened Noel’s attention
at any other time ; but he was off his guard :
he had not leisure to stop or to reflect.
He answered promptly, —

“I have known the truth for three
weeks. I made the discovery by chance. I
have important moral proofs ; but they are
mere presumptive evidence. A word from
the Widow Lerouge, one single word, would
have rendered them decisive. This word
she cannot pronounce, since they have

killed her ; but she has said it to me. Of
what avail ? Now, Madame Gerdy will deny
all. I know her ; with her head on the
block, she will deny it. My father doubt-
less will turn against me. I am myself
morally convinced. I was strong in evi-
dence ; but this crime renders vain my
certainty, utterly destroys my proofs ! ”

“ Explain it all to me,” replied Pbre
Tabaret after a pause, — “ all you under-
stand. We, the old, are sometimes able to
give good advice ; and I am willing to ad-
vise you.”

“ Three weeks ago,” commenced Noel,
“ searching for some old documents, I
opened Madame Gerdy’s secretary. Acci-
dentally I overturned a drawer : some
papers tumbled out, amongst which were a
packet of letters, which fell right into my
hand. A mechanical impulse, which I can-
not explain, prompted me to untie the
string, and read one of the letters.”

“ You did wrong,” remarked Pfere Tab-
aret.

“ Be it so. I read. At the end of ten
lines, I was convinced that this correspond-
ence was my father’s, whose name, Madame
Gerdy, in spite of my prayers, had always
hidden from me. You can understand my
emotion. I carried oft' the packet, shut
myself up in this room, and devoured the
letters from beginning to end.”

“ And you have been cruelly punished,
my poor boy ! ”

“ It is true ; but who in my position could
have resisted? These letters have given
me pain ; but they afford the proof of
what I have told you.”

“ And you have preserved the letters ? ”

“ I have them here ; and, that you may
understand the case in which I have re-
quested your advice, I am going to read
them to you.”

The advocate opened one of the draw-
ers of his bureau, pressed an imperceptible
spring, and a hidden receptacle appeared
,in the back of the upper tablette, from
which he drew out a bundle of letters.

“ You understand, my friend,” said he,
“ that I shall spare you all insignificant de-
tails, which, however, have their own
weight. I am only going to take up the
important facts, which treat directly of the
affair.”

Pere Tabaret nestled in his arm-chair,
burning with the fever of curiosity, his
face expressing the most ardent attention.

After a selection, which he was some
time in making, the advocate opened a
letter, and commenced his reading in a
voice which trembled, in spite of his efforts
to render it calm.

26

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“‘My Valerie, well beloved, —

“ Valerie,” said he, “you understand is
Madame Gerdy.”

“I know, I know. Do not interrupt
yourself.”

Noel continued.

“ ‘ My Valerie, well beloved.

“ ‘ This is a happy day. This morning I
received your welcome letter. I have
covered it with kisses. I have read it a
hundred times ; and now it has gone to
join the others here upon my heart. This
letter fills me with transport. You were
not deceived. Heaven has blessed our
loves ; and we shall have a son.

“ ‘ I shall have a son, the living image of
my adored Valerje ! Oh ! why are we
parted at a time like this? Why have I
not the wings of a bird, that I might fly to
thee, beloved of my soul, and mingle our
tears of joy and thankfulness ? Ah 1 never
as at this moment have I cursed the fatal
union imposed upon me by an inexorable
family, whose .cruelty my prayers and tears
could not soften. I cannot restrain myself
from hating this woman who bears in spite
of me my name, innocent victim though
she is of the barbarity of our parents.
And, to fill up the measure of sorrow, she
is also soon to make me a father. What
words can paint my sorrow when I com-
pare the fortunes of these two children ?

“ ‘ One, son of the object of my tender-
est love, shall have neither father, family,
nor name, since an inexorable law for-
bids me to legitimatize him. While the
other, the son of my detested spouse, by
the sole fact of his birth shall be rich,
honored, noble, surrounded by .devotion
and homage, with a great position in the
world. I cannot endure the thought of
this terrible injustice! Who can imagine a
way to repair it ? I cannot tell now ; but
be sure I shall find a way. It is to him, the
most desired, most cherished, most be-
loved, that the best fortune should come ;
and come to him it shall : I swear it.’ ”

“From whence is that letter dated?”
demanded Pere Tabaret.

“ See,” replied Noel.

He handed the letter to the old fellow,
who read, —

“ Venice, December, 1828.”

“ You perceive,” said the advocate, “ all
the importance of this first letter : it is a
brief statement of the facts. My father,
married in spite of himself, adores his
mistress and detests his wife. Nor are his
feelings towards the infants at all con-
cealed. In fact, we can plainly perceive,
peeping forth, the germ of the idea which

afterwards he matured and carried into
execution, in defiance of all law human or
divine ! ”

He was gradually falling into his pro-
fessional manner, as if pleading the cause
before the tribunals. Pere Tabaret again
interrupted him.

“ There is no explanation necessary ; the
letter is explicit enough. I am not an
adept in such matters as a grand juror ;
but I understand admirably so far.”

“ I pass several letters,” continued Noel,
“ and I come to this one of Jan. 23,
1829. It is very long, and filled with mat-
ters altogether foreign to the subject which
now interests us. However, I find therein
two passages, which attest the slow but
steady and determinate growth of the idea
suggested in the first letter.

“ ‘ The destinies, more powerful than my
will, chain me here ; but my soul is ever
near to thee, my adored Valerie ! Without
ceasing, my thoughts rest upon the un-
speakable happiness in store for us.’

“ I skip,” said Noel, “ several pages of pas-
sionate rhapsody, to stop at these lines at
the end.

“ ‘ My aversion to the countess increases
daily. Unfortunate woman ! I hate and
at the same time pity her. She seems to
divine the occasion of my sadness, my cold-
ness. By her timid submission and unalter-
able sweetness, she seems to seek pardon
for her share in our unhappy union. Sacri-
ficed creature ! She also may have given
her heart to another, before being fettered
to a husband who can never look upon her
with a husband’s love. Your good heart
will pardon me this pity.’

“ That countess was my mother,” cried
the advocate in a trembling voice. “ And
he demands pardon for the pity she in-
spires ! Poor lady 1 ”

He covered his eyes with his hand, as if
forcing back his tears, and added in a low
tone, —

“ She is dead ! ”

In spite of his impatience, Pere Tabaret
dared not utter a word. He resented
keenly the profound sorrow of his youthful
and respected friend. After a silence,
which almost maddened the old fellow, Noel
raised his head, and returned to the letters.

“ All the letters which follow,” said he,

“ carry traces of the preoccupation of my
father’s mind on the subject of his illegiti-
mate son. I lay them, however, aside, and
take up this written from Rome, March

5, 1829 ” Jr

“ ‘ My son, — our son,;,my most constant,
my only care, — how to secure for him the
position in the future of which I dream ?

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

The nobles of former days had not these
vulgar obstacles to their wishes to contend
with. In old time, a word from the kin"
would have ennobled my son, and given him
a place in the world. To-day, the kin"
who governs with difficulty his disaffected
subjects can do less than nothing. Nobility
has lost its rights ; and the lords of France
are as powerless to transgress the laws as
the meanest of their vassals.’

“ Lower down I find, —

“ ‘ My heart loves to picture to itself the
form and features of our son. He will
have the soul, the mind, the beauty, all the
/ fascinations of his mother. He will inherit
from his father the pride, the valor, the
sentiments of his noble and ancient race.
What will be the other ? I tremble to think
of it.’

“The monster! that is I!” cried the
advocate with intense rage. “ ‘ Whilst the
other — ’ but let us leave this part of the
subject, these preliminaries to an outra-
geous action. I only desire by these to
show the abberation of my father’s reason
under the influence of his passion. We
shall soon be at the end.”

Pere Tabaret was astonished at the
strength of this passion, long 'since burnt
out, of which Noel was raking up the dead
ashes. Perhaps he felt all the more keenly
the force of those passionate expressions of
devotion, because they reminded him of his
own lost youth. He understood how irresis-
tible must have been the force of such a
love ; and he trembled to speculate as to the
result.

“ Here,” said Noel, “is another; not one
of those interminable epistles from which
I have read you fragments, but a simple
billet. It is dated from Venice at the begin-
ing of May ; it is short but decisive.

“ ‘ Dear Valerie, —

“ ‘ Thy response is more favorable than I
dared to hope for. The project I have
conceived is now practicable. I begin to
feel the approach of ^calmness and sectfrity.
Your son shall bear my name. I shall not
be obliged to separate myself from him.
He shall be reared near me, in my
house, under my eyes, on my knees, in my
arms. Shall I have strength to bear this
excess of happiness ?

“ * I set out to-morrow for Naples, from
whence I shall write to you at length ; al-
though, whatever may happen, though I
should sacrifice the important interests con-
fided to me, I shall be in Paris at the
solemn hour. My presence will double
your courage ; my love shall diminish thy
sufferings.’ ”

“ Pardon me for interrupting you Noel,”
said Pere Tabaret, “do you know what
grave affairs detained your father abroad ?”

“ My father, my old friend,” replied the
advocate, “ was, in spite of his youth, one
of the friends, one of the confidants, of
Charles X. ; and he had been charged by
him with a secret mission to Italy? My
father is the Count Rheteau de Commarin.”

“ Whew ! ” exclaimed the old fellow ; and
between his teeth, the better to engrave the
name upon his memory, he repeated sev-
eral times, “ Rheteau de Commarin.”

Noel held his peace. Having controlled
his resentment, he seemed buried in reflec-
tion, as if seeking the means of executing
his unalterable determination to repair
the wrong he had sustained.

“ In the middle of the month of May,”
continued he, “ my father writes again, this
time from Naples. Does it not appear in-
credible that a man of prudence, sense, a
dignified diplomatist, a gentleman, should
dare, even in the eagerness of insensate
passion, to confide to paper this most mon-
strous project ? Listen !

“ ‘My Adored, —

“ ‘ Germain, my faithful valet de chambre ,
will hand you this letter. I have de-
spatched him to Normandy, charged with a
commission of the most delicate nature.
He is one of those servitors who may be
trusted implicitly.

“ ‘ The time has come when you must
learn the nature of my project touching our
son. In three weeks, at the latest, I shall
be in Paris.

“ ‘ Here is what I have resolved.

“ ‘ The two infants will be entrusted to two
nurses of Normandy, where my estates are
situated. One of these women, selected
and instructed by Germain, will be in our
interests ; to her charge, my Valerie, our
child is to be confided. These two women
shall leave Paris the same day, Germain
accompanying her who has the son of the
countess.

“ ‘ An accident, arranged in advance, will
compel these two women to pass one night
on the road. Another chance, brought
about by Germain, will force them to sleep
in the same inn, — in the same chamber !

“ ‘ During the night, the nurse entrusted
with your child will change the infants in
their cradles.

“ ‘ I have foreseen and arranged every
thing, even as I now explain it' to you.
Every precaution has been taken to prevent
our secret from escaping. Germain is
charged to procure, while in Paris, a cradle
and clothing for your infant precisely simi-

28

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

lar to that of the countess’s. Assist him
with your advice.

“‘Your maternal heart, sweet Valerie,
may bleed at thought of being deprived of
your infant. Console yourself for the loss
of his innocent caresses, by' dreaming of
the station secured to him by your sacrifice.
What excess of maternal tenderness can
serve him as powerfully as this separation ?
As to the other, I know your tenderness of
heart. You will love him for his father’s
sake ; and the affection you bestow on him
will prove your devotion to me. And he
will have nothing to complain of. Knowing
nothing, he shall have nothing to regret ;
and all that money and influence can
secure, in his position, he shall have.

“ ‘ Do not argue with me that this attempt
is criminal. No, my well beloved, no. The
success of our plan depends upon so many
coincidences, independent of our will, that,
should they unite, we may assure ourselves
the hand of Providence favors our design.
If success crowns our wishes, it will be
because heaven has decreed it.

“ * I have hope 1 * ”

“Just what I thought,” murmured Pere
Tabaret.

“ And the wretched man,” cried Noel,
“ dares to invoke the aid of Providence !
He would make heaven his accomplice ! ”

“ But your mother,” demanded the old
fellow, — “ pardon, I would say Madame
Gerdy, — how did she receive this proposi-
tion ? ”

“ She would appear to have rejected it,
at first, for here are twenty pages of elo-
quent persuasion from the count, urging
her to agree to it. Oh, this woman ! ”

“ My son,” said Pere Tabaret, softly,
“ let us not be unjust. Why direct all your
resentment against Madame Gerdy V To
me, the count seems far more deserving of
your anger.”

“ True,” interrupted Noel, with a certain
degree of violence, — “ true, the count is
culpable. He is the author of an infamous
conspiracy ; yet I am not inspired by a
sense of hatred against him. He has com-
mitted a crime, but has passion to excuse
it. Moreover, he has not deceived me
every hour of my life, by enacting a lie’,
as this miserable woman has, for thirty
years. And, more than all, his punish-
ment has been so cruel, that I can even
now pardon the injury he has done me, and
weep for the suffering it has entailed.”

“ Ah 1 he has been punished?” interro-
gated the old fellow.

“ Yes, fearfully ; how, you shall learn.
But allow me to continue. Towards the

end of May, or, more probably, during the
first days of June, the count must have
arrived in Paris; for the correspondence
ceases. It would seem, that, after his meet-
ing with Madame Gerdy, the final arrange-
ments of the conspiracy were delayed by
some obstacle. Here is a billet, relieving all
uncertainty on the subject. On the day it.
was written, the count was on service at the
Tuileries, and unable to leave his post.
He has written it even in the king’s cabi-
net, on the king’s paper ; see the royal
arms 1 The bargain has been concluded :
the woman who has consented to beconhe
the instrument of his project is in Paris, of
which he acquaints his mistress.

“ ‘ Dear Valerie, —

“ ‘ Germain announces to me the arrival
of your son’s nurse, — your son, our son.
She will present herself at your house dur-
ing the day. She is to be depended upon.
A magnificent recompense is the price of
her discretion. She has been given to
understand that you are ignorant of the
proposed exchange of children ; therefore
say nothing to her that may undeceive her
on that point. I wish to charge myself
with the sole responsibility of the deed.
It is the most prudent course. This woman
is of Normandy. She was born on our
lands and in some sort in our house. Her
husband is an honest mariner. Her name
is Claudine Lerouge.

“ ‘ Be of good courage, my love 1 I am
exacting from you the greatest sacrifice
that can be made by woman ; and I appre-
ciate the devotion that foregoes a mother’s
happiness for thy lover’s sake. There is
no longer a doubt that heaven is protect-
ing us. All smiles. Hereafter every thing
depends upon our address, our prudence.

I feel that we shall succeed 1 ’ ”

On one point, at least, P&re Tabaret was
sufficiently enlightened. The researches
into the past life of the Widow Lerouge
were* anticipated. He could not restrain
an exclamation, “ At last ! ” of satisfaction,
which fortunately escaped Noel.

“ This note,” said the advocate, “ closes
the Count de Commarin’s correspondence.”

“ What 1 ” exclaimed the old fellow, “ you
are in possession of nothing more ? ”

“ I have yet ten lines, written many
years later, which certainly have some
weight, but after all offer only moral proof.”-

“ What a misfortune 1 ” murmured Pere
Tabaret. Noel replaced on his bureau the
letters which were in his hand, and, turn-
ing towards his old friend, looked at him
steadily.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

29

Suppose,” said he slowly, and empha-
sizing every syllable, — “ suppose that all my
sources of information end here. Admit,
for a moment, that I know nothing more
than you do now. What is your advice ? ”

Phre Tabaret paused some minutes before
.answering ; he was weighing the probabili-
ties resulting from the count’s letters.

“For my own part,” said he at length,
“I believe on my soul you are not the
. son of Madame Gerdy.”

“ And you believe rightly ! ” answered
the advocate forcibly. “ You think, do
you not, that, after reading these letters, I
ought to have seen and questioned Clau-
dine? You will say this poor woman
who nursed me must have loved me ; that
she must have suffered some remorse for
her part in the horrible injustice of which
I was the victim ? Well, I have seen her.
I have questioned her ; and she has con-
fessed all. She was only too glad to do
so. The thought of her complicity tor-
mented her. It was a weight of guilt too
heavy for her age to bear ; and she told me
all. The count’s scheme, simply and yet
ingeniously conceived, succeeded without
any effort ; and I, poor helpless infant !
when but three days old, was thus betrayed,
despoiled, and disinherited by my unnatu-
,ral father and his unworthy mistress.
Poor Claudine ! remorse was dragging her
to the grave ; and she promised me, with
eagerness, her testimony on the day I
should reclaim my rights.”

“ And she is gone, carrying her secret
with her,” murmured the old fellow in a
■ tone of regret.

“I have yet,” said Noel, “one hope.
Claudine had in her possession several
letters, written subsequently, — some by the
Count, some by Madame Gerdy, — letters
at once imprudent and explicit. They
can be, without question, recovered ; and
their evidence will be decisive. I have
had them in my hands : I have read them.
Claudine would have given them to me;
but, fool that I was, I did not take them.”

The little hope that existed in that
quarter no one knew better than Pbre
Tabaret. To gain possession of those
very letters, the crime at Jonch&re had
been committed. The assassin had found
and burned them, with the other papers,
in the little stove. The old amateur was
master of the situation.

“ Knowing your affairs, my dear boy,
almost as thoroughly as my own,” said the
old fellow after another pause, “ I am sur-
prised the count should have forgotten the
promises he makes in his letters to Madame
. Gerdy, of promoting your fortune.”

“ He seems never to have remembered
them, my old friend.”

“ That,” cried the old fellow indig-
nantly, “ is even more infamous than all
the rest ! ”

“ Do not accuse my father,” answered
Noel gravely; “his liaison with Madame
Gerdy ceased long ago. I have a faint
recollection of a distinguished looking man
who came to see me at school. I am now
persuaded it was the count. But the
rupture came.”

“ Naturally,” said Pere Tabaret. “ A fine
gentleman 1 ”

“ Suspend your judgment,” interrupted
the advocate. “ M. de Commarin had
good reason ; his mistress deceived him.
He discovered her perfidy, and cast her off
with just indignation. The ten lines of
which I have spoken were written then.”

Noel searched a considerable time
among the papers scattered upon the table,
and at length selected a letter more faded
and creased than the others. Judging
from its appearance of having been often
folded and unfolded, it had been read over
and over many times ; the writing was
almost effaced in many places.

“ In this,” said he in a bitter tone,
“ Madame Gerdy is no longer ‘ adored
Valerie.’ ”

“ ‘ A cruel friend has, like a true friend,
opened my eyes. I doubted him, believ-
ing in you : but you have been watched ;
and to-day, unhappily, I can doubt no more.
You, Valerie, — you to whom I have given
more than my life, — you have deceived me,
and have been deceiving me long. Unhap-
py man that I am, I can no longer be cer-
tain that I am the father of your child.’ ”

“ But this letter is a proof,” cried Pere
Tabaret, — “a proof that cannot be over-
come. Of what importance to the count
would be a doubt of his paternity, had he
not sacrificed his legitimate to his natural
son V Yes, you have said truly, my dear
Noel, his chastisement has been severe.”

“ Madame Gerdy,” continued Noel,
“ attempted to justify herself. She wrote
to the count ; but he returned her letters
unopened. She tried to see him, but in
vain : he would not grant her an inter-
view. She knew that all was over when
the count’s steward brought her a legal set-
tlement of fifteen thousand francs a year.
Her son had taken my place ; and his
mother had ruined me ! ”

A light knock at the door of the study
interrupted their conversation.

“ Who is there ? ” demanded Noel with-
out stirring.

“ Monsieur,” answered the servant from

30

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

outside the door, “ madarae wishes to speak
to you.”

The advocate appeared to hesitate.

“ Go, my son,” advised Pere Tabaret ;
“ do not be merciless.”

Noel arose with visible reluctance, and
passed into Madame Gerdy’s sleeping
apartment.

“ Poor boy ! ” thought Pere Tabaret
when left alone. “ What a fatal discovery !
and how he must feel it. Noble young
man ! Brave, honest heart ! In his inno-
cent simplicity, he sees not from whence
the blow has fallen. By good fortune, I
am not so blind. I can see for him ; and,
when he despairs of justice, I am confident
of obtaining it. Thanks to his information,
I can see it all now. An infant’s intelli-
gence might now divine whose hand struck
the blow that silenced the important wit-
ness. How singular that he should assist
the discovery of this crime without know-
ing it ! How shall I proceed ? Ah ! if I
could have one of those letters for four and
twenty hours. He probably has counted
them. I dare not ask for one ; I would
be compelled to acknowledge my connec-
tion with the police. Better run the risk,
and take one, no matter which, that I may
verify the writing.”

Pere Tabaret had hardly thrust one of
the letters into the depths of one of his
capacious pockets, when the advocate re-
turned.

He was one of those men of strongly
formed character whose self-control never
deserts them. He was long accustomed to
dissimulation, that indispensable armor of
the ambitious.

Nothing in his manner betrayed what
had taken place between Madame Gerdy
and himself. He was absolutely as calm
as, when seated in his arm-chair, he lis-
tened to the interminable nothings of his
clients.

“ Well,” demanded Pere Tabaret, “ how
is she now ? ”

“ Worse,” answered Noel : “ she is deliri-
ous. She just now assailed me with the
most injurious accusations, upbraiding me
as the vilest of mankind. I am persuaded
she is out of her senses.”

“ Or losing them,” murmured Pere, Tab-
aret ; “ and I think you ought to call in a
physician.”

“ I am going in search of one,” answered
Noel.

The advocate resumed his seat before
his bureau, and re-arranged, according to
their dates, the scattered letters. He seemed
to have forgotten that he was wanting ad-
vice from his old friend ; nor did he appear

desirous of renewing the conversation
This was the farthest in the world from
Pere Tabaret’s intention.

“ The more I ponder over your history,
my dear Noel,” commenced he, “the more
I am bewildered. I do not know what
resolution I should adopt, were I in your
situation.”

“ Yes, my old friend,” answered the ad-
vocate, “ it is a situation that might well
perplex more profound experiences than
yours.”

The amateur repressed with difficulty
the smile, which for an instant appeared
upon his lips.

“ I confess it humbly,” said he, taking
pleasure in assuming an air of innocence.
“ But have you done any thing yet ?
Your first move should have been to de-
mand an explanation of Madame Ger-
dy.”

Noel made a startled movement, which
was unnoticed by Pere Tabaret, pre-occu-
pied as he was in trying to give the turn
he desired to the conversation.

“It was by that,” answered Noel,” I
began.”

“ Well, what did she say? ”

“ What could she say ? Was she not
overwhelmed by the discovery ? ”

“ What 1 did she not attempt to excul-
pate herself? ”

“ Oh, yes,” sneered Noel, “ she at-
tempted ; she is accustomed to attempt
the impossible, of course. She pretended
to explain the correspondence. She told
me, I know not how many absurd false-
hoods.”

The advocate finished gathering up his
letters, without seeming to perceive the ab-
straction, tied them carefully, and replaced
them in the secret drawer.

“ Yes,” continued he, rising and shutting
up his bureau, as if trying by the movement
to calm his anger, — “ yes, she attempted
to make me believe the exchange had never
taken place, — no easy matter, considering
the proofs I hold. This is the occasion of
her sickness. The idea that her son,
whom she adores, should be obliged to re-
store to me the name and fortune of which
he robbed me broke her heart. She
could see me suffer the most cruel priva-
tions ; but she could not bear the thought of
her son’s displacement. Rather than I
should hurt a hair of his head, she would
consign me to the bottomless pit.”

“ She has probably acquainted the count
with your discovery,” said Pere Tabaret,
pursuing his idea.

“ Hardly ; for the count has been absent
from Paris more than a month, and is not

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

31

expected to return until the end of the
week.”

“ How do you know that ? ”

“ I called at the house, as I wished to
see and speak with him.”

“ You? ”

“Yes. Do you think I shall not re-
claim my own ? Do you imagine that I
am the man to be robbed, spoiled, and be-
trayed with impunity ? No, I have rights ;
and I shall make them good. What con-
sideration with-holds me from lifting up my
voice and proclaiming my wrongs ? I shall
claim my rights. Do you think that sur-
prising ? ”

“ No, certainly, my friend ; then you
have visited M. de Commarin’s house ? ”

“ Oh ! I did not adopt this resolution im-
mediately,” continued Noel. “ My discov-
ery made me at first almost lose my senses.
A thousand opposing sentiments agitated
me. At one moment, my fury blinded me ;
the next, my courage deserted me. I would,
and I would not. I was undecided, uncer-
tain, wild. The eclat that must be occasioned
by the publicity of such an affair terrified
me. I longed to recover, — I will recover
my name ; but I would at the same time
preserve that noble name from stain. I
would, if possible, find a means of concilia-
ting all parties concerned, without public-
ity and without scandal.”

“You decided ? ”

“ Yes, after a struggle of fifteen days, —
fifteen days of torture, of anguish ! Ah !
what I suffered in that time ! I neglected
my business, being unable to fix my mind
upon any kind of work. During the day, I
tried by incessant action to fatigue my
body, that at night I might find forgetful-
ness in sleep. Vain hope : since I found
those ill-omened letters, I have not slept an
hour.”

From time to time, Pere Tabaret silently
consulted his watch.

“ M. Daburon will be asleep,” thought
he.

“ One morning,” continued Noel, “after
a night of rage, I determined to end all un-
certainty. I was in that desperate state of
mind, in which the gambler, after successive
losses, throws upon the board his last re-
maining coin. I called a carriage, and,
with a beating heart, gave the order, ‘ To
the Hotel de Commarin, Faubourg St. Ger-
main.’ ”

The old amateur allowed a sigh of im-
patience to escape him.

“ It is one of the most magnificent houses
in Paris,” continued Noel, — “a princely
dwelling, worthy the representation of an
illustrious family, — almost a palace. Right

and left of the vast courtyard are the sta-
bles, where twenty horses of price are
standing in reserve for common use. At
the back rises the grand facade of the main
building, majestic and severe, with its
sculptured pediment, its noble portice, and
its double flight of marble steps. Behind
the house extends a large garden, or rather
a park, shaded by the oldest trees, perhaps,
in Paris.”

This enthusiastic description sorely test-
ed Pere Tabaret’s patience ; but he did not
venture to interrupt Noel by a question.
An indiscrete word might betray him, and
reveal his relation with the bureau of in-
vestigation.

“ Standing before the dwelling of my an-
cestors,” continued Noel, “ you cannot com-
prehend the excess of my emotion. Here,
said I, is the house in which I was born.
This is the home in which I should have
been reared ; and, above all, this is the spot
where I should reign to-day, whereon I
stand an outcast and a stranger, devoured
by the sad and bitter memories, of which
banished men have died. I compared my
brother’s brilliant destinies with my sad
and laborious career ; and my indignation
well nigh overmastered reason. The mad
impulse stirred me to force the doors, to
rush into the grand salon, and drive out
the intruder, — the son of Madame Gerdy,
— who has taken the place of the son of the
Countess de Commarin ! Out, usurper,
out of this. I am the master here. The
propriety of legal means at once recurred
to my distracted mind, however, and re-
strained me. Once more I stood before the
habitation of my fathers. How I love its
old sculptures, its grand old trees, its
shaded walks, worn by the feet of my poor
mother ! I love all, even to the proud es-
cutcheon, frowning above the principal
doorway, flinging its defiance to the theo-
ries of this age of levellers.”

This last phrase conflicted so directly
with the code of opinions habitual to Noel,
that Pere Tabaret was obliged to turn aside,
to conceal his amusement.

“ Poor humanity ! ” thought he ; “ he is
already the grand seigneur.”

“ On presenting myself,” continued the
advocate, “I demanded to see the Count
de Commarin. A Swiss porter, in grand
livery, answered, the count was travel-
ing, but that the viscount was at home.
This ran counter to my designs ; but I was
embarked ; so I insisted on speaking to the
son in default of the father. The Swiss
porter stared at me with astonishment. He
had evidently seen me alight from a hired
carriage, and so deliberated for some mo-

32

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

ments as to whether I was not too insigni-
ficant a person to have the honor of being
admitted to visit the viscount.”

“ But tell me, have you seen him ? ”
asked Pere Tabaret, unable to restrain his
impatience.

“ Of course, immediately,” replied the
advocate in a tone of bitter raillery.
“ Could the examination, think you, result
otherwise than in my favor? No. My
white cravat and black costume produced
their natural effect. The Swiss porter
entrusted me to the guidance of a chasseur
with a plumed hat, who, leading me
across the court to a superb vestibule,
transferred me to the care of a lackey ; who,
in company with five or six others, was lol-
ling upon a bench. This fine gentleman
led me up a spacious staircase, wide enough
for a carriage to ascend, and preceded me
along an extensive picture gallery, guided
me across a vast apartment, of which the
furniture was shrouded in sombre coverings,
and finally delivered me into the hands of
the valet de chambre of Albert de Com-
marin ; that is to say, the man who bears my
name.”

I understand, I understand.”

“ I had passed an inspection ; now I had
to undergo an examination. M. Albert’s
valet desired to be informed who I was,
whence I came, and what I wanted, what
was my profession, and all the rest. I an-
swered simply, that I was unknown to the
viscount ; but it was absolutely necessary I
should converse with him for five minutes
upon an affair of the most urgent nature.

I waited more than a quarter of an hour,
when he reappeared. His master had gra-
ciously deigned to receive me.”

It was easy to perceive that his reception
rankled in the advocate’s breast. He could
not forgive Albert his lackeys and his
valet de cliambre. He forgot the words of
the illustrious duke, who said, “ I pay my
valets for being insolent, to save myself the
trouble.” Pere Tabaret was a little surpri-
zed at his young friend’s bitterness, in
speaking of these trivial details.

“ Can it be true,” thought he, “ that the
arrogance of lackeys is the secret of the
people’s hatred of the aristocracy V ”

“ I was ushered into a small salon,”
continued Noel, “ simply furnished, the
only ornaments of which were weapons.
These, ranged against the walls, were of all
times and countries. Never have I seen in
so small a space so many muskets, arque-
busses, pistols, swords, sabres, and foils : one
might have imagined himself in the arsenal
of a maitre de armes”

The weapon used by the Widow

Lerouge’s assassin naturally recurred to the
old fellow’s memory.

“ The viscount,” continued Noel, speak-
ing slowly, “ was half lying on the divan
when I entered. He was dressed in a
jacket and pantaloons of velvet, and had
around his neck an immense scarf of white
silk. I do not cherish resentment against
this young man. He has never to his knowl-
edge injured me. He had no share in his
parent’s crime. I am therefore able to speak
of him with justice. He is handsome, has
a noble air, and carries gracefully the name
which does not belong to him. He is about
my height, of the same brown complexion,
and would resemble me, perhaps, if he did
not wear a beard. Yet he appears at
least five years younger ; but this is readily
explained, he has neither worked nor suf-
fered. He is one of the fortunate ones of
the earth, who traverse life’s road on such
soft cushions that they are never injured
by the jolting of the carriage. On seeing
me, he arose and saluted me graciously.”

“ You must have been dreadfully ex-
cited.”

“ Less than I am at this moment : re-
member, I was fifteen days preparing for
this interview ; and fifteen days of mental
torture exhausts one’s emotions. I an-
swered the question I saw upon [his lips.

‘ Monsieur,’ said I, ‘ you do not know me ;
but that is of little consequence. I come
to you, charged with a very grave, a very
sad mission, which not only interests you,
but touches the honor of the name you
bear.’ Without doubt he did not believe
me ; for, in a tone of the coolest imperti-
nence, he asked me, ‘ Shall you be long ? ’

I answered as coolly, ‘ Yes.’ ”

“ Pray,” said Pere Tabaret, becoming
very attentive, “ do not omit a single de-
tail ; it may be very important, you under-
stand.”.

“ The viscount,” continued Noel, “ ap-
peared much disquieted. At length he said
courteously, ‘My time is hardly at my
own disposal this morning. I am at this
hour engaged to call upon my fiancee, Made-
moiselle d’Arlanges. Can we not postpone
this conversation ? ’ ”

“ Good 1 another woman,” said the old
fellow to himself.

“ I answered the viscount, that an ex-
planation would admit of no delay ; and, as
I saw him prepare to dismiss me, I drew
from my pocket the count’s correspond-
ence, and presented to him one of the let-
ters. On recognizing his father’s hand-
writing, he became more tractable, declared
himself at my service, and demanded per-
mission to write a word of apology to the

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

S3

lady by whom he was expected. Having
written the note hastily, he handed it to
his valet, and ordered him to send it to Ma-
demoiselle d’Arlanges immediately; then,
opening the door of the adjoining apart-
ment, his library, he requested me to enter.”

“ One word,” interrupted the old fellow ;
“ was he troubled on seeing the letters ? ”

“ Not the least in the world. After clos-
ing the door, he handed me a chair, and,
seating himself, said, ‘ Now, monsieur, ex-
plain yourself.’ I was fully prepared for
the situation, and decided to strike a grand
coup."

• “ ‘ Monsieur,’ said I, ‘ my mission is pain-
ful. The facts I am about to reveal to you
are incredible. I beseech you, do not in-
terrupt me, and do not answer me until
you have read the letters I am about to
show you.’ He regarded me with an air
of extreme surprise, and answered, ‘ Speak I
I can hear all.’ I stood up. ‘ Monsieur,’
said I, ‘ I must inform you that you are
not the legitimate son of M. de Commarin,
as this correspondence will prove to you.
The legitimate son exists ; and he it is who
sends me.’ I kept my eyes on his while
speaking ; and I saw there a passing gleam
of fury : for a moment I expected he was
about to spring at my throat. He spoke
quickly. ‘ The letters,’ said he in a short
tone. I handed them to him.”

“ How,” cried Pere Tabaret, “ these let-
ters, — the true ones ? How imprudent ! ”

“ And why ? ”

“ If he had — I don’t know ; but — ” the
old fellow hesitated. The advocate leaned
his powerful hand upon the old man’s
shoulder.

“ I was there,” said he in a hollow tone ;
“ and I promise you the letters were in no
danger.”

Noel’s features assumed such a sudden
expression of ferocity that the old fellow
was terrified, and recoiled instinctively.

“He would have killed him,” thought
he.

The advocate resumed.

“ That which I have done for you this
evening, my friend, I did for the viscount.
I obviated, at least for the moment, the ne-
cessity of reading all of these hundred and
fifty-six letters, by directing his attention
to those marked with a cross, and to the
passages of most especial importance, indi-
cated with a red pencil.”

“ It was an abridgment of his penance,”
said Pere Tabaret.

“ He was seated,” continued Noel, “ be-
fore a little table, too fragile even to lean
upon. I was resting against the mantel-
piece. I followed his slightest movements ;

3

and I scanned his features closely. Never
in my life have I seen so sad a spectacle.
I shall never forget it, were I to live a
thousand years. In less than five minutes
his face changed to a degree that his own
valet would not have recognized him. He
held his handkerchief in his hand, with
which from time to time mechanically he
wiped his lips ; and, as he read, the lips be-
came as white as the handkerchief. Large
drops of sweat stood upon his forehead ;
and his eyes became dull and clouded, as
if a film had covered them : but not an ex-
clamation, not a sigh, not a groan, escaped
him, not even a gesture. At one moment,
I felt such pity for him that I was almost
on the point of snatching the letters from
his hands, throwing them into the fire, and
taking him in my arms, crying, ‘ No, you
are my brother ! Forget all ; let us rematin
each one in his place 1 Let us love one an-
other.’ ”

Pere Tabaret took Noel’s hand, ' and
pressed it.

“ Ah ! ” cried he, “ I recognize my gen-
erous boy.”

“ If I have not done this, my friend, it is
because I said to myself, ‘ These letters
burned, would he recognize me as his
brother ? ’ ”

“ Ay ! ” sighed Pere Tabaret, “ it is
true.”

“ In about half an hour, he had finished
reading : he arose, and facing me directly,
said, 1 You are right, monsieur. If these let-
ters are really written by my father, as I
believe them to be, they distinctly prove
that I am not the son of the Countess de
Commarin.’ I did not answer. ‘ Mean-
while,’ continued he, ‘ these are only pre-
sumptions. Are you possessed of other
proofs ? ’ I expected, of course, a great
many other objections. ‘ Germain,’ said
I, ‘ can speak.’ He told me that Germain
had been dead for several years. Then I
spoke of the nurse, the Widow Lerouge.
I explained how easily she could be found
and questioned, adding that she lived at la
Jonchere.”

“ And what said he, Noel, to this ? ” de-
manded Pere Tabaret anxiously.

“ He preserved a moment’s silence, and
appeared to reflect. All on a sudden he
struck his forehead, and said, ‘ I remember ;
I know her. I have accompanied my father
to her house three times, and have seen him
give her considerable sums of money.’ ”

“ I remarked to him that this was yet an-
other proof. He made no answer, but went
out as if to look for something in the ad-
joining room. He returned after some min-
utes, —

34

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ ‘ Monsieur, said he, can I meet the legiti-
mate son of the count, my father? ’ 1 ans-
wered, ‘ You see him before you, monsieur ! ’
He bowed his head, and murmured, ‘ I knew
it was he. ’ He took my hand, and added,
‘Brother, I bear you no grudge for the
step you have taken. All I ask of you is,
to wait eight or ten days, when my father
will return. I will explain every thing to
him ; and I promise you tligt justice shall be
done. I, on my side, lose every thing, —
name, position, fortune, and, worse than all,

I shall probably lose my plighted bride,
Mademoiselle d’Arlanges, who is dearer to
me than life itself. In exchange, it is true I
shall find a mother. I will labor to console
her for your loss, monsieur, and win her love
by tenderness and devotion. * ”

“ Did he really say that ? ”

“ Almost word for word.”

“ Hypocrite ! ” growled the old fellow be-
tween his teeth.

“ What did you say ? ” asked Noel.

“ I say that he is a fine young man ; and
I shall be delighted to make his acquain-
tance. ”

“ I did not show him the letter referring
to the rupture,” added Noel ; “ so that he is
ignorant of Madame Gerdy’s misconduct.

I voluntarily deprived myself of this proof,
rather than give him further pain. ”

“ And now ? ”

“ WThat am I to do? I am waiting the
count’s return. I shall act more freely after
hearing what he has to say. To-morrow I
shall demand permission from the tribu-
nals to examine the papers belonging
to Claudine. If I find the letters, I am
saved ; if not, — but, as I have told you, I
have taken no step since I knew of this as-
sassination. Now, what is your advice ? ”

“ The briefest counsel demands long re-
flection,” replied the old fellow, who was in
haste to depart. “ Alas ! my poor boy,
what a fate yours has been ! ”

“ Terrible ! and, in addition to all this dis-
traction, I have pecuniary embarrassments.”
“ How ! you who spend nothing ? ”

“ I have advanced large sums on mort-
gages. I might make use of Madame
Gerdy’s fortune, which I have hitherto used
as my own ; but ®o, I could not bring my-
self to it.”

“ You certainly ought not ; but hold I I
am glad you spoke of money : you can
render me a service. ”

“ Very willingly ; in what way ? ”

“ I have in my secretary twelve or fifteen
thousand francs, which trouble me exceed-
ingly, you can easily understand why. I
am an old man, weak and defenceless. If
any one knew I had this money — ”

“You are certainly imprudent in running
such a risk, ” acknowledged the advocate.

“ Then, ” said the old fellow, “ to-morrow
I will give them to you to take care of. ”

But remembering lie was about to put
himself at M. Daburon’s disposal, and that
perhaps he might not be free on the morrow,
he said, —

“ But no, I will not wait until to-mor-
row. This infernal money shall not remain
another night in my keeping. ”

He darted out, and presently reappeared,
holding in his hand fifteen bank bills of a
thousand francs each.

“ If that is not sufficient for the present,”
said he, handing them to Noel,“ you can
have more. ”

“ I will give you a receipt, ” said the ad-
vocate.

“ Time enough to-morrow.”

“ And if I die to-night ? ”

“ Then, ” said the old fellow to himself,
thinking of his will, “ some one else will
have to be my heir. Good-night ! ” said
he aloud : “ you have asked my advice ; I
shall require the night for reflection. At
present my brain is whirling ; I must go out
into the air. If I go to bed now, I shall
have a horrible nightmare. Good-night,
my boy ; patience and courage. Who knows
whether at this very hour Providence is not
working for you ? ”

He went out ; and Noel, leaving his door
open, listened to the sound of his footsteps
as he descended the stairs. Almost imme-
diately the cry of, “ Open, if you please,”
and the banging of the door apprised him
that Pere Tabaret was in the street.

He waited a few minutes and refilled his
lamp, then took a small packet from one of
his bureau drawers, slipped into his pockets
the bank bills given him by his old friend,
and quitted his study, of which he locked the
door. On the landing of the staircase he
paused. He listened so intently that even
Madame Gerdy’s moans were audible to
him. Hearing nothing else, he descended
on tiptoe. A minute later he was in the
street.

CHAPTER V.

Communicating with Madame Gerdy’s
apartments was a room on the ground floor,
formerly a coach house, but used by her as
a lumber room. Here were heaped to-
gether all the old rubbish of the house-
hold, — utensils past service, articles be-
come useless or cumbrous. Here were also

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

35

stored the provision of wood and coal for
winter fuel.

This old coach house had a small door
opening on the street, which had been
nailed up many years ago ; but Noel had
secretly repaired this door, provided it with
a lock, of which he kept the key, and by
its means was enabled to enter or leave the
house at any hour, without the porter’s
knowledge.

By this door the advocate went out,
using the utmost caution in opening and
closing it.

When in the street, he remained a mo-
ment stationary, as if hesitating which way
to go. Then, turning his steps towards the
railway depot of St. Lazare, he hailed a
passing cab.

“ Rue Faubourg Montmarte, at the corner
of the Rue Provence, and make haste,”
said Noel, entering the vehicle.

At the spot named, the advocate alighted,
and dismissed his coachman. Waiting until
he had departed, Noel turned into the Rue
Provence, and, after walking a few steps,
rang the door-bell of one of the handsomest
houses in the street.

The door was immediately opened.

When Noel passed before the loge, the
porter made him a bow, at once respectful
and patronizing, — one of those salutations
which Parisian porters reserve for patrons
of open hands and well-filled purses.

Arrived at the second floor, the advocate
paused, drew a key from his pocket, and
entered as if at home.

At the sound of the key in the lock, a
young and pretty waiting woman, with a
bold pair of eyes, ran towards him.

“ Ah, monsieur ! ” cried she.

This exclamation escaped her just loud
enough to be audible at the extremity of
the apartment, and serve as a signal, if
needed. It was as if she cried, “ Take
care ! ” Noel did not seem to remark it.

“ Madame is there ? ” asked he.

“ Yes, monsieur, and very angry, too, I
can tell you. This morning she wanted me
to go in search of you. A little while ago,
she spoke of going herself. I have had much
difficulty, monsieur, in not disobeying your
orders.”

“ Very well,” said the advocate.

“ Madame is in the smoking room,” con-
tinued the soubrette. “ I am making her a
cup of tea. Will monsieur have one ? ”

“ Yes,” replied Noel, “ light me, Char-
lotte.”

They passed through successively a mag-
nificent dining room, a splendid salon dore
in the style of Louis the XIV., and entered
the smoking room.

This was a rather large apartment, of
which the ceiling was remarkably elevated.
On entering it, the visitor might easily
imagine himself three thousand miles from
Paris, in the house of some opulent manda-
rin of the celestial empire'of China. Fur-
niture, carpets, hangings, pictures, — all
had evidently been imported direct from
Hongkong or Shanghai.

A rick silk tapestry, representing highly
colored figures, clothed the walls and hung
before the doors. All tkc empire of the
sun and moon there defiled before the spec-
tator. Corpulent mandarins disported
themselves in vermilion landscapes, or,
surrounded by lanterns, lay stupefied with
opium, sleeping under their parasols.
Young girls, with almond shaped eyes ele-
vated at the outer corners, stumbled upon
their diminutive feet, swathed in banda-
lettes.

The carpet of a tissue, the secret of
which is unknown in Europe, was strewn
with fruits and flowers, whose perfect re-
semblance to natural objects might have
deceived a bee. On the silken canopy,
which hid the ceiling, some great artist of
Pekin had painted fantastic birds, opening
on a ground of azure their wings of purple
and of gold.

Slender rods of lacque, encrusted with
mother of pearl, held the draperies in
place, and marked the angles of the apart-
ment.

Two fantastic chests occupied one side
of the room. Furniture of capricious and
incoherent forms, tables with porcelain tops,
and chiffoniers of precious woods encum-
bered every recess or angle.

Then there were ornamental nic-nacs,
purchased in the bazars of Lien Tsi, le Ta-
han, from Sou-Tcheou, the artistic city, —
a thousand curiosities impossible and ex-
pensive, from the ivory chop stick, which
take the place of our forks, to the tea-cups
of porcelain, thinner than soap bubbles, —
miracles of the reign of Kien Loung.

A divan, very large and very low, piled
up with cushions covered with tapestry
similar to the hangings, ran along the back
of the room. There was no window ; but
instead a large looking-glass, reaching
from floor to ceiling, was let into the wall,
in front of which was a double door of
glass with movable panes. The space
between this glass door and the mirror was
filled with plants and rare exotics ; which,
being reflected in the mirror, presented the
optical illusion of a conservatory.

The absent fireplace and chimney was
replaced by registers adroitly concealed,
which maintained a temperature in the

36

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

apartment that seemed to make the flowers
blow upon the silk, truly harmonizing with
the furnishing of this luxurious abode.

When Noel entered, a young woman
was lying on the divan, smoking a cigar-
ette. In spite of the tropical heat, she was
enveloped in great shawls of magnificent
cassimere.

She was petite, and united in her small
figure all the physical beauties in such per-
fection as only small women can. Women
who are above the medium height are
either essays, or errors of nature. If hand-
some, they invariably present some defect ;
like the work of a sculptor, whose faults,
unnoticed when presented in a statuette,
become glaring when exhibited in a colos-
sal figure.

She was small ; but her neck, her shoul-
ders, and her arms had the most exquisite
contours. Her hands, small and plump,
even to the retroussb finder tips and rosy
nails, were of marvellous beauty, and
seemed preciously cared for. Her feet, en-
cased in silken stockings almost as thin as
a cobweb, were a marvel ; not that they
recalled the fabled foot which Cinderella
thrust into the glassy slipper; but that
other foot, — more real, more palpable,
though less celebrated, — of which the fair
owner (the wife of a well-known banker)
used to present the model to her admirers
in bronze or in marble.

Her face was not beautiful, nor even
pretty : but her features were such as one
never forgets ; for, at the first glance, they
startled the beholder like a flash of light-
ning. Her forehead was a little high, and
her mouth unmistakably large, notwith-
standing the provoking freshness of her
lips. Her eyebrows seemed to have been
drawn with Chinese ink ; but, unhappily
the pencil had been, used too heavily ; and
they gave her an unpleasant expression
when she frowned. In revenge for these
defects, her smooth complexion had a rich
golden pallor ; and her black and velvety
eyes possessed enormous magnetic power.
Her teeth were sound and of a pearly bril-
liancy and whiteness ; and her hair, of
prodigious opulence, was black and waving,
and glossy as a raven’s wing.

On perceiving Noel, as he drew aside
the silken curtain which served as a door,
she half-arose and leaned upon her elbow.

“ So you have come at last ? ” said she
in a tone of vexation: “we ought to be very
happy ! ”

The advocate was almost suffocated by
the oppressive temperature of the room.

“ How warm it is 1 ” said he ; “ it is
enough to stifle one I ”

“ Do you find it warm ? ” replied the
young woman. “ Well, that shows the ex-
tent of my suffering ! I am shivering : but
it’s your fault ; you know that waiting is in-
supportable to me. It acts upon my nerves ;
and I have waited for you since yesterday.”

“ It has been impossible for me to come, ”
said Noel, — “ impossible ! ”

“You know perfectly well,” continued
the lady, “ that to-day was my settling day ;
and I have had quite a number of bills to
pay. The upholsterer came. Not a sou
to give him. The coachmaker sent his
bill. No money : call again ! then this old
swindler who holds my note for three thou-
sand francs, — he has been here, making a
frightful row I All this is agreeable, is it
not ? ”

Noel bowed his head like a truant school-
boy, undergoing the pedagogue’s rebuke.

“It is but one day behind,” murmured
he.

“ One day behind ! ” retorted the young
woman ; “ and is that nothing ? A man
who respects himself may permit his own
note to be protested, if he will ; but that of
his mistress, never 1 ”

“ For what do you take me ? ” continued
she, working herself into a passion. “ Do
you forget that I receive no consideration
from you except money ? Very well, since I
am to have nothing else, I will have that at
all events ; and the day it is not forthcom-
ing, I bid you good-by.”

“ My dear Juliette ! — ” began the advo-
cate, gently.

“ Oh, yes ! that’s all very fine ; but I
have heard it all before,” interrupted she.

“ Your dear Juliette ! your adored Juliette 1
and, as long as you are face to face with
Juliette, she is an angel, if she would
allow you to make a fool of her : but, no
sooner have you turned your back upon
Juliette, than she is given to the winds;
and you never take the trouble even to re-
member that there is such a person as Juli-
ette 1 ”

“ How unjust you are ! ” replied Noel.

“ As if you are not well assured that 1
am always thinking of you. Have I not
proved it to you a thousand times ? Hold !

I am going to prove it to you again this
instant.”

So saying, he produced the small packet
lie had taken from his bureau, and, opening
it, showed her a handsome velvet casket. °

“ See ! ” said he, exultingly, “ the brace-
let you wished for so much, eight days a«-o,
at M. Beautjrau’s.”

Madame Juliette, without rising, held out
her hand to take the jewel case, and, open-
ing it with the utmost nonchalance, glanced

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

37

at the magnificent bauble; then, closing
the casket, she threw it carelessly upon a
little table near her, saying, —

“ It looked much prettier in the shop win-
dow.”

“I am unfortunate, this evening,” said
the advocate, apparently much mortified
at the reception of his cdstly present.

“ Unfortunate, my friend ? Indeed, how
so ? ”

“ I see plainly the bracelet does not please
you.”

“Oh, yes ! it is very pretty ; at all events,
it will complete the two dozen.”

At this Noel almost lost patience : but
he controlled himself ; and, as she was si-
lent, he went on, —

“You exhibit little sign of gratifica-
tion.”

“ Oh ! indeed 1” cried the lady. “ I am
not grateful enough ! I am not sufficiently
profuse in my acknowledgments, to please
my generous benefactor? You bring me
a present, and expect instant payment. I
am to fill the house with cries of joy, and
throw myself upon my knees before your
feet, calling you a great and magnificent
seigneur 1 ”

Noel was unable this time to restrain a
gesture of impatience ; which Juliette per-
ceived plainly enough, to her great de-
light.

“ Is that sufficient ? ” continued she. “ Or
must I call Charlotte to admire this superb
monument" of your generosity ? Shall I run
down stairs to exhibit it to the porter?
shall I go into the kitchen and dazzle the
eyes of my cook, and ask her if I ought not
to be happy in the possession of a lover so
unboundedly munificent ? ”

The advocate raised his shoulders like a
philosopher, unable to answer the jests of
a child.

“ A truce to these cutting witticisms,”
said he. “If you have any complaint
against me, better to say so simply and
seriously.”

“ So be it,” said Juliette, quickly, chang-
ing her manner. “ Let us be serious. And,
being so, let me tell you it would have been
better to have forgotten the bracelet, and
remembered the eight thousand francs of
which I have such pressing need.”

“ I could not come.”

« You might send ; there are messengers
at the street-corners.”

“ If I have neither brought nor sent
them, my dear Juliette, it was because I
did not have the amount. I have trouble
enough in getting a promise of it to-morrow.
If I have the sum this evening, I owe it to
a chance upon which I could not have

counted an hour ago ; and I have brought
it to you to-night, at the risk of compro-
mising myself.”

“ Poor man ! ” said Juliette, in a tone of
pity ; then incredulously, “ do you dare to
tell me you have had difficulty in finding
ten thousand francs, — you ? ”

“ Yes,” replied Noel, calmly, “ 1 1 ”

The young woman looked at her lover,
and burst into a fit of laughter.

“ You are superb in the role of poor
young man ! ” said Juliette scornfully.

“ It is not a rdle,” said Noel stolidly.

“ What do you say ? ” exclaimed she ;
“ but I see what we are coming to. This
amiable confession is the preface. To
morrow you will be very much embarrassed ;
and the day after to-morrow you will be
ruined ! Avarice is the name of the com-
plaint that afflicts you, my friend. Do you
not feel a pang of remorse for all the money
you have lavished upon me ? ”

“ Selfish woman ! ” murmured Noel, an-
grily.

“ Truly,” continued the lady, “ I pity
you, unfortunate lover ! Shall I get up a
subscription for you ? In your place, I
should issue an appeal to the benevolent.”

Noel lost his temper, in spite of his reso-
lution.

“ You think it a laughing matter ? ” asked
he bitterly. “ Well, understand me, Juli-
ette ; I am at the end of my expedients. I
have exhausted my resources! I am ru-
ined 1 ”

The eyes of the young woman bright-
ened. She regarded her lover tenderly.

“ Oh, if ’twas only true ! ” said she. “ If
I could only believe you ! ”

The advocate was wounded to the heart.

“ She believes me,” thought he ; “ and
she is glad : she detests me.”

He was deceived. Madame Juliette
never loved him so well as at that moment.
The idea that he had loved her to the ex-
tent of ruining himself for her, without even a
reproach for her extravagance, almost trans-
ported her with joy. It was but for a mo-
ment, however. She became immediately
incredulous. The expression of her eyes
changed quickly.

“ What a fool you must think me, to come
with your romantic stories of ruin, and ex-
pect me to believe them ! No, no, my
friend ; such men as you do not ruin them-
selves. It is your vain young coxcombs and
your drivelling old dotards who ruin them-
selves for their mistresses. You are a very
gay young spark; but you never lose your
senses. You are very grave and prudent,
and, above all, very strong.”

“ Not with you,” murmured Noel.

38

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ Pshaw ! then leave me alone. You
know well what you are about. Instead of
a heart, you have a calculating machine.
You have taken a fancy to me, and ap-
praised me. You have said to yourself, ‘I
can afford to pay this passion so much;’
and you hold yourself to your word. It is
an investment, like any other, in which one
receives a certain amount of interest agreed
upon. You arc capable of all the folly and
extravagance in the world that does not go
beyond your limit of four thousand francs
a month ! If it runs twenty sous over the
amount fixed, you take up your heart and
your hat, and carry them somewhere else.”

“ It is true,” answered Noel, coolly. “ I
know how to count ; and that accomplish-
ment is very useful to me now, since it
enables me to know how and where I have
spent my fortune.”

“Do you really know?” sneered Juli-
ette. •

“ And I can tell you,” continued he. “At
first, you were r.ot exacting; but the appe-
tite came with eating. You wished for lux-
ury ; you had it : splendid furniture ; I
gave it : extravagant toilettes, a house in
the Rue Provence, with a marble staircase
in front, a carriage, a pair of English horses :
I responded, I denied you nothing. You had
every thing you desired. I speak not of a
thousand fantasies. I include neither this
Chinese cabinet nor the two dozen brace-
lets. The total is four hundred thousand
francs ! ”

“ Are you sure ? ”

“ As one can be who has had that amount,
and has it no longer.”

“ Four hundred thousand francs, just?
Are there no centimes ? ”

“ No.”

“ There, my dear friend, I will present
you with the bills duly receipted ; and you
will be satisfied.”

The entrance of the waiting woman with
the tea-tray interrupted this amorous duct,
of which Noel had experienced more than
one repetition.

Madame Juliette Chaffour was a Paris-
ienne. She was born about 1830, in the
highest apartment of a house in the Fau-
bourg Montmarte. Her mother was a
beauty of some note in her day. Her father
was unknown. Her infancy was a long
alternation of beatings and caresses, equal-
ly furious ; and she was fed on sugar plums,
sour wine, and damaged fruit : so that her
stomach was as depraved as her intel-
ligence. At twelve years old, she was
meagre as a nail, and green as a June apple ;
and, as for her mental training, a strict
moralist would have considered her a pre-

cocious little wretch, totally destitute of
principle.

As she gave no promise of beauty, she
was placed in a store, to study the art and
mystery of selling ribbons and laces ; when
a wealthy and highly respectable gentle-
man,— an old friend of her mamma’s many
years ago, — accorded her his protection.
This prudent old gentleman was a connois-
seur, and detected the promise of charms,
where others saw only indications of ugli-
ness. He sent his protege to a school, to
receive a varnish of education. Here she
learned to read and write very badly, to
play the piano tolerably, and to waltz to
such perfection that she turned the head
of a foreign ambassador, whom her old
protector brought to see her at one of his
visits.

When the old gentleman came to take
her from the seminary, he found she had
been taken away already, by a young art-
ist, who offered her half of every thing he
possessed ; that is to say, nothing. At the
end of three months, she quitted the studio
of her artistic admirer, with her entire
wardrobe tied up in a cotton pocket hand-
kerchief.

During the four years which followed,
she led a precarious existence, — sometimes
with little else to live upon but HopS,
which never wholly abandons a young girl
who knows she has good eyes. Bv turns
she sunk to the bottom, and p,gain rose to
the surface of the stream down which she
was being carried. But she was reckless
and imprudent. Twice had fortune in
fresh gloves come knocking at her door ;
and she had not the sense to seize him by
the skirt of his paletot.

With the assistance of a captain of a
coasting vessel, she managed to get an ap-
pearance at a small theatre, and acquitted
herself adroitly enough in the trifling roles
entrusted to her ; when Noel, by the merest
accident, encountered her. He loved her ;
and she became his mistress.

The advocate did not displease her at
first. She admired him for his polite man-
ners, his distinguished air, his learning,
his knowledge of the world, his contempt
for all that was unworthy, and, above all,
for his unalterable patience, which nothing
could tire. Soon, however, she began to
discover qualities to her less admirable.
He was not amusing- He never made her
laugh. He absolutely refused to accompa-
ny her to any of the numerous places of
amusement where gaiety puts on her holi-
day garb and laughter reigns supreme.
For absolute lack of employment, she be-
gan to squander money ; and, in proportion

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

39

to the gratification of her extravagant de-
sires and the sacrifices made by her lov-
er, her aversion to him increased.

She rendered him the most miserable of
men, and treated him like a very dog ; and
this not from natural badness of disposi-
tion, but from a firm belief in the precept, —
the only one ever taught her by her mam-
ma,— that a woman is beloved in propor-
tion to the trouble she causes and the mis-
chief she docs.

Juliette was not wicked ; and she be-
lieved she had much to complain of. The
dream of her life was to be loved in a
way which she felt, but could scarcely
have explained. She had never been to
her lover more than a plaything. She un-
derstood this; and, as she was naturally
proud, the idea enraged her. She dreamed
of a lover who would be devoted enough
to make a real sacrifice for her, — who
would descend to her level, instead of at-
tempting to raise her to his. She des-
paired of meeting such a man.

Noel’s extravagance, instead of melting
her heart, hardened it. She believed he
was very rich, and actually resented his lib-
erality as the insolence of wealth ; for,
strange to say, in spite of her extrava-
gance, she cared little for money. Noel
would have been an immense gainer by an
outspoken frankness that would have shown
her clearly his situation. He lost her love
by the delicacy of his dissimulation, that
left her ignoramt of the sacrifices he was
making for her.

Noel adored Juliette. Until the fatal
day he saw her, he had been a sage, a
model of prudence and integrity. This,
his first and only passion, burned him up ;
and, from the disaster, he saved only ap-
pearances. The lour walls remained stand-
ing; but the interior of the edifice was
destroyed. Even heroes have their vul-
nerable parts. Achilles was wounded in
the heel. The most artfully constructed
armor has a joint somewhere. By Juliette,
Noel was assailable; and her entrance
made way for every thing. For her, in
four years, this model young man, this ad-
vocate of the immaculate reputation, this
austere moralist, had wasted not only his
own fortune, but Madame Gerdy’s also.

He loved Juliette madly, without re-
flection, without measure, with his eyes
shut. Near her, he forgot all prudence,
and became reckless of consequences. In
her boudoir, he dropped his mask of ha-
bitual dissimulation, and his vices displayed
themselves at case, as his limbs in a bath.

He felt himself so powerless against her
that he never essayed to struggle. She

possessed him. Once or twice he had at-
tempted to firmly oppose her caprices ; but
she had made him pliable as the osier.
Under the dark glances of this girl, his
strongest resolutions melted more quickly
than snow beneath the April sun. She
tortured him ; but she had also the power
to repay him for all, — by a word, a smile,
a single tear, or a caress.

Away from the enchantress, reason re-
turned at intervals ; and, in his lucid mo-
ments, he said to himself, “ She does not
love me. She is amusing herself with my
folly, and laughing at my infatuation.”
But her love had taken such deep root in
his heart that he could not pluck it forth.
He made himself a monster of jealousy,
to torture him still more, and was con-
stantly occupied in arguments within him-
self respecting her fidelity. But he never
had the courage to declare his suspicions.
“ I should either have to leave her,”, thought
he, “ or accept everything in the future.”
At the idea of a separation from her, he
trembled, and felt his passion strong enough
to compel him to submit to the lowest in-
dignity. He preferred even his desolating
doubts to a still more dreadful certainty.

The presence of the maid who took a
con'siderable time in arranging the tea-
table gave Noel an opportunity to recover
himself. He looked at Juliette ; and his
anger took flight. Already he began to
fear he had been a little cruel to her.

When Charlotte retired, he came and
took a seat on the divan beside his mistress,
and attempted to put his arms round her.

“ Come,” said he in a caressing tone,
“ you have been angry enough for this
evening. If I have done wrong, you have
punished me sufficiently. Make peace,
and embrace me.” She repulsed him an-
grily, and said in a dry tone, —

“ Let me alone ! How many times must
I repeat, that I am suffering from nervous-
ness this evening.”

“ Suffer, my love ? what ails you ? shall
I bring the doctor ? ”

“ There is no need. I know the nature
of my malady. It is called ennui; and
the doctor cannot cure me.”

Noel rose with a discouraged air, and
took his place at the other side of the tea-
table, facing her. His resignation bespoke
how habituated he had become to these re-
buffs. Juliette snubbed him; but he re-
turned always, like the poor dog who lies
in wait for the instant when his caresses
may not be inopportune.

“ You have told me very often, during
the last few months, that you feel ennui.
What have I done to you ? ”

40

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ Nothing.”

“ Well, why then ” — ?

“My life is nothing more than a long
imprisonment,” answered the young woman
with flashing eyes. “ Do you think it very
amusing to be shut up here all alone until
you come in, like a mute at a funeral?
Look at yourself, — sad, disagreeable, rest-
less, suspicious, devoured by a prying jeal-
ousy ! ”

“ Your reception of me, my dear Juliette,
this evening,” ventured Noel, “ was enough
to extinguish gaiety and freeze good
humor ; and, as for my jealousy, one fears
where one loves.”

“ Thank you, monsieur. I am the occa-
sion of your sad looks and grave speeches !
Go, then, and find another woman express-
ly formed to suit your ideas, and, if you
cannot find her, have one made to order ;
and, when you get her, then shut her up in
a cave, and show her to yourself once a
day, after dinner, with the dessert, when
the champagne is on the table. That’s
your idea of happiness, is it ? ”

“ I should have done better not to have
come,” murmured the advocate.

“ Indeed 1 That I might remain alone
here, without any thing to occupy me ex-
cept a cigarette and a stupid, book, that I
go to sleep over? Do you call this an
existence, even, never to budge out of the
house ? ”

“ It is the life of all the honest women
that I know,” replied the advocate, dryly.

“ Then I cannot compliment them on
their enjoyments They merit all the re-
spect they gain by being honest women, if
they have no more amusement than that.
Happily for me, however, I am not an
honest woman ; although I might as well
be, housed up more closely than the wife
of a Turk, with your sorrowful face for my
only distraction.”

“ You housed up ? You live in a prison,
you ? ”

“ Yes, I ! ” continued Juliette, with
eager opposition. “Let us see. Have
you ever brought one of your friends here ?
No. Monsieur hides me. When have you
offered me your arm for a promenade ?
Never. Monsieur’s dignity would be sull-
ied, if he were seen in my company. I
have a carriage. Have you entered it
three times ? Perhaps ; but then you
pulled up the blinds ! I ride out alone. I
promenade alone.”

“ Always the same refrain,” interrupted
Noel, his anger beginning to rise, “ without
ceasing these discontented complainings, as
if you had yet to learn the reason why this
state of things exists.”

“ I am not ignorant,” pursued the young
girl, “ that you blush for me. I know, at the
same time, men who carry higher crests
than yours who willingly show themselves
by the side of their mistresses. Monsieur
trembles for the fine name of Gerdy that I
am tarnishing ; whilst the sons of the
greatest families in France are not afraid
to proclaim their preferences to all the
world.”

This home-thrust enraged Noel, to the
great delight of Madame Chaffour.

“ Enough of these recriminations ! ”
cried he, rising. “ If I hide our relations,
it is because I am constrained to do so.
Of what do you complain? You have un-
restrained liberty; and you use it, too, and
so largely that your actions altogether
escape me. You accuse me of creating a
vacuum around you. I bring no friends to
visit you. Am I to blame for the circum-
stances of my position ? My friends have
been accustomed to see me in a home
whose aspect speaks of modest competence,
not unrestrained extravagance. Can I
bring them here, to be astonished by your
luxury, by this suite of apartments, — a
monument of my folly ? Would they not
inquire of me, from whom have I taken
the money that maintains this mad pro-
fusion ? ”

“ I may have a preference : granted ;
but I have no right to throw away a for-
tune which is not my own. The day it
becomes known that my folly enables you
to pursue your career of extravagance, my
future prospects are destroyed. What
client would confide his interests to an
imbecile who permitted himself to be
ruined by the woman whose toilettes are
the talk of Paris? I am not a noble. I
have neither an historical name to tarnish
nor an immense fortune to lose. I am
Noel Gerdy, advocate. My reputation is
all that I possess. It is a false reputation,
you will say. Be it so. Such as it is, it is
necessary to me ; and I will endeavor to
keep it.”

Juliette knew Noel by heart. She saw
that she had gone far enough.

“ My friend,” said she, tenderly, “ I do
not wish to pain you. You must be indul-
gent. I am horribly nervous this evening.”

This simple change of tone delighted the
advocate, and sufficed almost to calm his
anger.

“ You drive me mad with your injustice,”
said he. “ While I exhaust my imagina-
tion to find what can be agreeable to you,
you are perpetually attacking my gravity ;
and forty-eight hours have not elapsed since
we were plunged in all the extravagance of

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

41

the carnival. To please you, I kept the
fete of Shrove Tuesday like a student. I
took you to the theatre ; I put on a domino,
and accompanied you to the ball at the
opera, and even invited two of my friends
to sup with us.”

“ It was very gay indeed,” answered the
young girl, making a wry face.

“ So it seemed to me.”

“ Did it, indeed ? Then you are not
difficult to please. We went to the Van-
deville, it is true, but separately, as we
always do, — I alone above, you below. At
the ball, you looked the very picture of mis-
ery ; and, at the supper-table, your friends
were as melancholy as a pair of owls. I
obeyed your orders, by affecting hardly to
know you ; and, by the way, although you
drank like a sponge, I could not see that
you became a whit more cheerful, even
when you were drunk.”

“ A proof,” interrupted Noel, “ that we
ought not to force our tastes. Let us talk
of something else.”

He took a few steps in the room, and
looked at his watch.

“ An hour gone already,” said he. “ My
love, I must leave you. ”

“ How, already V ”

“ Yes, to my great regret : my mother is
dangerously sick.”

He displayed, and counted on the table,
the bankbills given him by P&re Tabaret.

“ My petite Juliette,” said he, “ here are
not eight thousand francs, but ten thousand.
You will not see ine again for some days.”

“ You are going to leave Paris, then ? ”

“ No ; but my entire time will be ab-
sorbed by an affair of immense importance.
If I succeed in my undertaking, mignone,
our future happiness is assured ; and you
will soon see how well I love you 1 ”

“ Oh, my dear Noel, tell me what it
is.”

“ I cannot, now.”

“ Tell me, I beseech you,” pleaded the
young girl, hanging round his neck, raising
herself upon the points of her toes to ap-
proach her lips to his. The advocate em-
braced her ; and his resolution seemed to
waver.

“.No,” said he, at length, “ I am serious,

I cannot. Of what use to awaken in you
hopes that may never be realized ? Now,
my cherished, hear me well. Whatever
may happen, understand, you must under
no pretext whatever again come’ near my
house, as you had once the imprudence to
do. Do not even write to me. By disobey-
ing, you may do me an irreparable injury.
If any accident occurs, send for me by this
old extortioner, Clergeot. I ought to have

a visit from him to-morrow, or the day
after ; he holds notes of mine.”

Juliette recoiled, menacing Noel with a
mutinous gesture.

“ You will not tell me any thing ? ” in-
sisted she.

“ Not this evening ; but shortly I will tell
you every thing,” replied the advocate, em-
barrassed by the piercing glances of her
dark eyes.

“ Always some mystery 1 ” cried Juliette,
piqued at the want of success attending her
blandishments.

“ This will be the last, I swear to you I ”

“Noel, my good man,” said the young
girl in a serious tone, “ you are hiding
something from me : I know it ; I read it
in your face. For several days, — how I
cannot precisely explain, — you have been
completely changed.”

“ I swear to you, Juliette — ”

“ No, swear nothing*; I should not be-
lieve you. Only remember, no attempt at
deceiving me, I forewarn you. I am a wo-
man to revenge myself.”

The advocate evidently was ill at ease.

“ The affair in question,” stammered he,
“ can as well fail as succeed.”

“ Enough ! ” interrupted Juliette ; “ your
will shall be obeyed. I promise that. All
right, monsieur. Good-night. I am going
to" bed.”

The door was not shut upon Noel when
Charlotte was installed on the divan, near
her mistress. Had the advocate been lis-
tening at the door, he would have heard
Madame Juliette say, —

“ What a scene 1 No, Charlotte, I can
endure him no longer. I am afraid of him.
He is capable of killing me 1 I can see it
in his glance.”

The soubrette vainly tried to defend
Noel ; but her mistress did not listen. She
murmured, —

“ Why does he absent himself? and what
is he plotting ? Some mischief, I am sure.
An absence of eight days ! It is suspicious.
Can he by any chance be going to be mar-
ried ? Ah ! if I knew it. You weary me
to death, my -good Noel, with your gravity
and your jealousy ; and I am determined to
break with you one of these fine mornings ;
but I cannot permit you to quit me first. I
cannot allow you to get married, and dis-
miss me. No, no, my mysterious friend, I
must have some information about your
business of immense importance.”

But Noel did not listen at the door. He
left the house in haste, descended the Rue
Provence as quickly as possible, gained the
Rue St. Lazare, and entered as he had de-
parted,— by the secret door. Pie had

42

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

hardly reached his study, when the nurse
knocked at the door.

“ Monsieur,” said the woman, “ in the name
of heaven, answer me 1 ”

He opened the door, and said with im-
patience, “ What is it now ? ”

“ Monsieur,” stammered the servant in
tears, “ this is the third time I have called,
and you have not answered. Come, I im-
plore you. I am afraid madame is dying ! ”
He followed the nurse to Madame Ger-
dy’s chamber. He must havd found her
terribly changed; for he could not restrain
a movement of terror.

The sick woman struggled painfully be-
neath her coverings. Her face was of a
livid paleness, as though there was not a
drop of blood in her veins ; and her eyes,
which glittered with a sombre fire, seemed
covered with a film. Her hair, loose and
disordered, falling over her cheeks and
upon her shoulders, contributed to her
wild appearance. She uttered from time
to time a groan hardly audible, or mur-
mured unintelligible words. At times, a
fiercer pang than common forced from her
a cry of anguish. She did not recognize
Noel.

“ You see, monsieur,” said the nurse.
“Yes. Who would have believed her
malady could advance so rapidly ? Quick,
run to Dr. Herve ! he will come immedi-
ately, when you tell him it is for me.”

And he seated himself in the arm-chair,
facing the sick woman.

Doctor Herve was one of Noel’s friends,
— an old school-fellow, his companion of
the Quartier Latin, in his student days.
The doctor’s history differed in nothing
from that of most young men, who, with-
out fortune, friends, or influence, enter upon
the practice of the most difficult, the most
hazardous of professions in Paris.

A man of remarkable courage and self-
reliance, conscious of possessing superior
talent, Herve determined neither to exile
himself in a country village, nor place him-
self under the control of some unprincipled
dealer in drugs, as many of his companions
were reduced to the necessity of doing, to
gain a bare subsistence. “ I will remain
in Paris,” said he to himself ; “ I will there
become celebrated. I shall be surgeon-in-
cliief of the hospital, and wear the cross of
the legion of honor.”

To enter upon this path of thorns, lead-
ing to an arch of triumph, the future acad-
ameeian ran himself twenty thousand francs
in debt to furnish a small office. Here,
armed with a patience which nothing could
fatigue, an iron resolution that nothing
could subdue, he struggled and waited.

Only those who have experienced it can
understand what sufferings are endured by
the poor, proud man, who waits in a black
coat, freshly shaven, with smiling lips,
while he is starving of hunger. The refine-
ments of civilization have inaugurated
punishments, compared to which the tor-
ture practised on his victim by the savage
indian is mercy.

The unknown physician must begin by
attending the sick beds of the poor who
cannot pay him, becoming known to the
mass of human beings who take advantage
of the needs of their fellow-men. He is
called in by a citizen of the better class, to
save the expense of employing a more
thriving practitioner. The sick man is
profuse in promises, while he is in danger ;
but, when cured, he recovers the use of his
faculties and forgets the doctor’s fee.

After seven years of heroic persever-
ance, Herve obtained at last a circle of
patients who paid his fees. During this
time, he had lived and payed the exorbi-
tant interest of his debt ; but lie had suc-
ceeded at last. Three or four pamphlets,
and a prize won without much intrigue,
attracted public attention to him. He be-
came the great, the famous physician of
Paris.

But he is no longer the brave young
enthusiast, full of the faith and hope that
attended him in his visits to the poor,
whose lives he saved without other pay-
ment than their prayers. He comes now
to the rich man’s sick bed, stronger and
more self-reliant than ever, it is true, but
neither hoping for nor rejoicing in success.

He had used up those feelings in the days
when he had not wherewith to pay for his
dinner. For his great fortune in the time
to come, he had paid too dearly in the
past ; and now to attain success is to take
a revenge. At thirty-five, he is blase, filled
with disgust at the deceptions of the world
and believing in nothing. Under the
appearance of universal benevolence, he
conceals universal scorn. His finesse, a
sharpened by the grindstone of adversity,
has become mischievous. And, while he
sees through all disguises worn by others,
he hides his penetration carefully under a
mask of cheerful good-nature and jovial
lightness.

But he was good, he was devout, and he
loved his friends.

He arrived, hardly dressed, so great had
been his haste. His first word on entering
was, —

“ What is the matter with him ? ”

Noel pressed his hand in silence, and
pointed to the bed.

THE WIDOW LERQUGE.

48

In less than a minute, the doctor com-
pleted his examination of the sick ■woman,
and returned to his friend.

“ What has happened to her ? ” de-
manded he shortly. “It is necessary I
should know.”

The advocate started at this question.

“ Know what ? ” stammered he.

“ All,” answered Herve. “ This is a
case of encephalite. I cannot be mistaken
in the symptoms. It is an uncommon mal-
ady, and generally fatal. Even when the
life of the patient is saved, the functions
of the brain usually remain arrested.
What can have occasioned this ? There
is no local injury to the brain or its bony
covering. The mischief has been caused
by some violent emotion of the soul, — a
shock, the intelligence of some catastro-
phe ! ”

Noel interrupted his friend by a gesture,
and drew him into the embrasure of the
window.

“ Yes, my friend,” said he in a low tone,
“ Madame Gerdy has experienced great
mental suffering. She has been tortured
by remorse for crime, and apprehension of
discovery. Listen, Herve. I will confide
to your honor and our friendship a secret.
Madame Gerdy is not my mother. She
has despoiled me, to enrich her son with
my fortune and my name. Three weeks
have elapsed since my discovery of this
unworthy fraud. This discovery was the
shock you have suspected. Since then,
she has been dying minute by minute.”

The advocate expected some exclama-
tions of astonishment, some questions re-
garding the particulars of this singular
history, from his friend ; but the doctor
received the explanation without remark,
as a simple statement, indispensable to his
understanding the case.

“ Three weeks,” murmured he ; “ that
explains every thing. Has she appeared
to suffer much during the time ? ”

“ She complained of violent pains in the
head, dimness of sight, and a noise as of
the surging of water in her ears ; but do
not conceal any thing from me, Hervb ; is
there serious danger? ”

« So serious, my friend, that I am under-
taking a hopeless task in attempting a
cure.”

“ Ah ! good heaven ! ”

“ You asked for the truth, my friend ;
and I have had the courage to answer,
because you tell me this poor woman is
not your mother. Nothing short of a mir-
acle can save her; but this miracle we
may prepare for. And now to work.”

CHAPTER VI.

Eleven o’clock was striking at the Ter-
minus of St. Lazare, when Pere Tabaret
left his house, stunned and bewildered by
the flood of information so unexpectedly
poured upon him. Having been obliged to
restrain himself while in Noel’s presence,
his sudden release to the freedom of speech
and deportment was delightful. On gain-
ing the street, he reeled like a drunkard
when he first breathes the open air, after
leaving the heated atmosphere of the wine
shop, so intense was the effect of the sudden
revelations, just made by his friend Noel.

Notwithstanding his haste to arrive at
M. Daburon’s, he did not take a carriage.
He felt the necessity of walking. He was
one of those to whose brain exercise brings
clearness. As he went along, his ideas
clashed and shifted themselves, as grains
of wheat when shaken in a basket. With-
out hastening his pace, he gained the Rue
Chaussee d’ Antin, crossed the boulevard
with its resplendent cafes, and turned into
the Rue Richelieu.

He walked along, unconscious of exter-
nal objects, tripping and stumbling over
the inequalities of the sidewalk, or slipping
on the greasy pavement. If he followed
the proper road, it was a purely mechanical
impulse that guided him. His mind was
following through the darkness the myste-
rious thread of which he had seized the
almost imperceptible end at Jonchere.

Persons laboring under strong emotion
frequently, without knowing it, utter their
thoughts aloud, little thinking into what
indiscreet ears their revelations or dis-
jointed phrases may fall. At every step,
we meet in Paris people babbling to them-
selves, and unconsciously confiding to the
four winds of heaven their dearest secrets,
like cracked vases that allow their contents
to steal away. Often the passers by take
these eccentric monologuists for madmen.
Often the idle or curious follow, and amuse
themselves by receiving these strange con-
fidences. It was an indiscretion of this
kind which told the ruin of Riscara the
rich banker. Lambreth, the assassin of
the Rue Yenise, betrayed himself in a sim-
ilar manner.

“ What a vein I ” said Pere Tabaret.
“ What an incredible piece of good for-
tune 1 Gevrol has well said, that, after all,
the cleverest agent of the police is chance.
Who would have imagined such a history ?
I was not, however, very far from the real-
ity. I smelt out an infant at the bottom of
the mystery ! But who would have dreamed
of such a thing as the substitution ? — an

44

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

old sensational effect, used up long ago
in plays and novels. This is a striking
example of the danger of following pre-
conceived ideas in police investigation.
We are affrighted at unlikelihood ; and, as
in this case, the greatest unlikelihood
proves often to be the truth. We retreat
before the absurd ; and the absurd turns out
to be the very thing we should examine.
Every thing is possible.

“ I would not take a thousand crowns
for the experiences of this evening. I
shall kill two birds with one stone. I de-
liver up the criminal ; and I give Noel a
hearty clap on the shoulder to recover his
title and his fortune. For once I shall not
be sorry to see a boy raised to fortune from
the school of adversity. But, pshaw ! he
will be like all the rest. Prosperity will
turn his head. Already he begins to prate
of his ancestors. Poor humanity ! ” he
burst into a fit of laughter. “ It is my
friend Madame Gerdy who has astonished
me most of all, — a woman to whom I would
have given absolution before waiting to
hear confess; and then to think that I
was on the point of asking her hand
in marriage ! What a narrow escape !
B-r-r-r I”

At this thought, the old fellow shivered. He
saw himself married, and all on a sudden,
discovering the antecedents of Madame
Tabaret, becoming mixed up with a scandal-
ous prosecution, compromised, and rendered
ridiculous.

“ When I think,” he went on laughing,
as his thoughts took another direction, —
“ when i think of my worthy Gevrol run-
ning after the man with ear-rings in his
ears ! Ha, ha ! Travel, my boy, travel !
Voyages inform youth. How vexed he
will be when he hears of this I He will
wish me dead. I must jest with him a
little, just a little. I cannot help it. If he
wishes to do me any injury, M. Daburon
must protect me. Talking of Daburon.
Am I not going to take a thorn out of his
foot ? I can see him from this spot, open-
ing his eyes like saucers, when I say to
him, ‘ I have the rascal ! * This investiga-
tion will bring him honor, when all the
credit is due to me. He will, at the least,
receive the cross of honor. So much the
better. He will come to me again, this
judge. If he is asleep, I am going to give
him an agreeable awaking. How he will
overpower me with Questions! How he
will want to know the end, before I can re-
late the beginning ! ”

Pere Tabaret, who was now crossing the
bridge of St. Pere’s, stopped suddenly.
“ Hold ! ” said he, “ the details ? I have

not got them. I know the story only in the
gross.”

He continued his walk, and resumed, —
“ They are right at the office ; I am too
hasty. I am too fond of romancing, as
Gevrol says. When I was with Noel, I
ought to have cross-examined him, until I
extracted from him all those little points of
evidence which now I can only guess at ;
but I was carried away. I drank in his
words. I would willingly have had him
tell the story in one sentence. But, af-
ter all, it is but natural. When one is in
pursuit of a stag, he does not stop to shoot
a blackbird. Besides, by insisting on mi-
nute particulars, I might have awakened
suspicions in Noel’s 'mind, and led him to
discover that I am working up the case for
the Rue Jerusalem. To be sure, I do not
blush for my connection with the police : I
am even vain of it ; but I love to think
that no one suspects it, — to see how stu-
pid people are in not knowing the police
who protect and guard them. And now
for the interview ; for here we are at the
end of our journey. ”

M. Daburon had gone to bed, but had
given orders to his servant ; so that Pere
Tabaret had but to give his name, to be
conducted to the magistrate’s sleeping-
room.

At sight of his amateur agent, the judge
addressed him quickly,* —

“ There is something extraordinary !
What have you discovered ? have you got
a clew ? ”

“ Better than that,” answered the old
fellow, smiling at ease.

“ Speak quickly 1 ”

“ I have got the culprit ! ”

Pere Tabaret ought to have been satis-
fied ; he certainly produced an effect. The
judge bounded from his bed.

“ Already ? ” said he. “ Is it possible ? ”

“ I have the honor to repeat to M. the
judge of inquiry that I know the author
of the crime of Jonchere.”

“ And I,” said the judge, — “I proclaim
you the most able of police agents past or
future. I shall certainly never hereafter un-
dertake an investigation without your as-
sistance.”

“ You are too kind, monsieur. I have had
little or nothing to do in the matter. The
discovery is due to chance alone.”

“ You are modest, M. Tabaret. Chance
assists only wise men. She disdains to aid
the stupid ; but I beg you will be seated
and talk.”

Then with a lucidity and precision of
which few would have believed him capa-
ble, the old fellow repeated to the judge all

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

45

of Noel’s story. He repeated from memory
the extracts from the letters, almost with-
out changing a word.

“ These letters,” added he, “ I have seen ;
and I have even carried off one, in order to
verify the writing. Here it is.”

“ Yes,” murmured the magistrate, —
“ yes, M. Tabaret, you have discovered the
criminal. The evidence is palpable, even
to the blind. Heaven has willed this.
Crime engenders crime. The misdeeds of
the father have made the son an assas-
sin.”

“ I have not given you the names, mon-
sieur,” said Pere Tabaret. “ I wished first
to hear your opinion of the evidence.”

“ Oh 1 you can name them,” interrupted
the judge with a certain degree of anima-
tion. {,If ever so high in position, they
shall not escape the law. A French
magistrate never hesitates.”

“ I know it, monsieur ; but we are going
high this time. The father who has sacri-
ficed his legitimate to his natural son is the
Count Rheteau de Commarin ; and the as-
sassin of the Widow Lerouge is the natural
son, Albert Vicomte de Commarin ! ”

Pere Tabaret, like an accomplished artist,
had uttered these words with a deliberate
emphasis, expecting confidently to produce
a great impression. His attempt overshot
itself. M. Daburon was struck with stu-
por. He remained motionless, his eyes
dilated with astonishment. Mechanically
he repeated it, like a strange word, the
«ense of which he was trying to under-
stand.

“ Albert de Commarin ! Albert de Com-
marin ! ”

“ Yes,” insisted Pere Tabaret, “ the no-
ble viscount. He is the last man in the
world to be expected, I know.”

But he perceived the alteration of the
judge’s face ; and, a little frightened, he
approached the bed.

“ Are you unwell ? ” he asked.

“ No,” answered Daburon, without know-
ing what he said. “ I am very well ; but
the surprise, the emotion,” —

“•I understand that,” said the old fellow.

“ I wish you would leave me for a few
minutes ; but do not depart. We »nust con-
verse at some length on this business.
Will you step into my study ? There ought
to be a fire still burning there. I will re-
join you in an instant.”

Then Daburon rose lightly from the
bed, put on a dressing-gown, and seated
himself, or rather fell, into an arm-chair.
His face, to which the exercise of his aus-
tere functions had given the immobility of
marble, reflected the most cruel agitation;

while his eyes betrayed the inward agony
of his soul.

The name of Commarin, suddenly pro-
nounced, awakened in him the most sor-
rowful recollections, and tore open a wound
but badly healed. This name recalled to
him an event which had rudely extin-
guished his youth and broken his life. In-
voluntarily, he carried his thoughts back to
this epoch, and compelled himself to taste
again all its bitterness.

An hour ago, it had seemed to him far
removed, and already hidden in the mists
of the past. One word had sufficed to re-
call it, clear and distinct. It seemed to
him now that this event with which he
connected the name of Albert de Com-
marin dated from yesterday, instead of
which two years had elapsed.

Pierre Marie Daburon belonged to one
of the oldest families of Poitou. Three or
four of his ancestors had filled sucessively
the most considerable offices in the prov-
ince. Why, then, had they not bequeathed
a title and their arms to their descend-
ants ?

The magistrate’s worthy father inhabited
an ugly modern castle ; but it was sur-
rounded by about eight hundred thousand
franc’s worth of the best land in France.
His mother was a Cottevise-Luxe, from
whom he inherited the blood of the highest
nobility of Poitou, one of the most exclu-
sive families in France, as every one
knows.

When he was appointed a judge of in-
quiry in Paris, his parentage openyd for
him without delay five or six aristocratic
salons ; and he was not slow to extend his
circle of acquaintance.

He passed, however, few of the qualifica-
tions for social success. He was cold and
grave even to sadness, reserved and timid
to excess. His mind wanted brilliancy
and lightness ; he lacked the facility of re-
partee, and the amiable art of conversing
without a subject, — which is almost a ne-
cessity in mixed companies. He could
neither relate a bon mot nor pay a com-
pliment. Like most men who feel deeply,
he was unable to translate his impressions
immediately. Reflection was necessary to
him ; and he fell back upon himself.

To compensate for these defects, he pos-
sessed other qualities more solid, — nobility
of sentiment, strength of character, and in-
tegrity of purpose. Those who knew him
quickly learned to esteem his sound judg-
ment, his keen sense of honor, and to dis-
cover under his cold exterior a warm heart,
an excessive sensibility, and a delicacy
almost feminine. In a word, although he

46

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

might be eclipsed by the wits and triflers
of a crowded salon, he charmed all hearts
in a smaller circle, where he felt warmed
by the purer atmosphere of sympathy.

He accustomed himself to go abroad a
great deal. He reasoned, wisely perhaps,
that a magistrate can make better use of
his time than by remaining shut up in his
study, in company with books of law. He
thought a man, to be a judge, ought to know
something of mankind ; and, with that be-
lief, he entered upon the study of the sub-
ject. An attentive and discrete observer,
he examined around him the play of human
interests and passions, exercised himself in
disentangling and manoeuvring at need
the strings of the puppets he saw moving
about him. Piece by piece, so to say, he
labored to comprehend the working of the
complicated machine called society, of
which he was charged to overlook the
movements, regulate the springs, and pre-
serve the healthful action.

All on a sudden, towards the commence-
ment of the winter of 1860 and 1861, Dabu-
ron disappeared. His friends sought for
him : he was nowhere to be found. What
had become of him ? Inquiry resulted in
the discovery that he passed nearly all his
evenings at Madame d’ Arlanges’ house.
The surprise was as great as it was natural.

This dear marquise was, or rather is, — for
6he is still in the land of the living, — a per-
sonage rather out of date and rococo in the
dowagers of the Princess de Southenay’s
circle. She is surely the most singular
link between the eighteenth century and
our own. How, and by what marvelous
process she has been preserved such as we
see her, from so remote an age to the pres-
ent, is a more puzzling question than we
can explain. Listening to her, you would
swear that she was yesterday at one of the
queen’s soirees, whose passion for cards
was the annoyance of Louis XIV., at whose
parties the great ladies cheated openly in
emulation of each other.

Manners, language, habits, even costume,
she preserved them all; and, as time had
touched them, not to beautify but to disfig-
ure, the effect was not the most pleasing.
A glimpse of her head-dress is more than
a long article of review of the court of
Louis XIV. ; an hour’s conversation, more
than a volume of the “ Confessions of
Madame de Maintenon.”

She was born in a little German princi-
pality, where her parents had taken refuge
from their wild and rebellious people. She
had been nursed, when a child, on the knees
of old Emigres, in a salon very old and
very much gilded, resembling a cabinet of

curiosities. Her mind was awakened
amid the hum of antediluvian conversa-
tions, her imagination aroused by argu-
ments a little less profitable than those of
an assembly of dunces, convoked to decide
the merits of a Greek hexameter. Here
she imbibed a fund of ideas, which, applied
to the forms of society to-day, are grotesque,
as would be those of an individual shut up
for twenty years in an Assyrian museum.

The empire, the restoration, the mon-
archy of July, the second republic, the
second empire, have passed beneath her
windows ; but she has not taken the pains
to open them. All that has taken place
since ’89 she ignores, or at most looks upon
as a dream, a nightmare, and expects an
awakening. She has seen every thing ;
but she has seen it through spectacles of
her own making; which present objects not
as they are, but as she wishes them to be.

At the age of sixty-eight, she was straight
as an arrow, and had never known a day’s
sickness. She ate her four meals a day
with the appetite of a grape-gatherer, and
drank when she was thirsty. She was
so vivacious and active that she never
rested save when sleeping, or when
seated at her favorite game of piquet. She
professed an undisguised contempt for the
silly women of our century, who dine on
the wing of a partridge, and talk you to
death with philosophical disquisitions.
Positive and over-bearing in all things, her
word was prompt and easily understood.
Her language was never rendered obscure
by unnecessary delicacy. She never shrank
from using the most appropriate words to
express her meaning. If she offended some
refined ears, so much the worse, — for their
owners. What she most detested was hy-
pocrisy.

She believed in God ; but she believed
also a little in Voltaire. In fact, her devo-
tion was, to say the least, problematical.
However, she was on good terms with the
curate of her parish, and was very partic-
ular about the arrangement of her dinner
on the days she honored him with an invi-
tation to her table. She considered him a
subaltern, very useful to her salvation, and
deserving of the honor of opening for her
the gate of paradise.

Slie was shunned like the plague. Every-
body dreaded her high voice, ‘her terrible
indiscretion, and the frankness of speech
she seemed to effect, in order to claim the
right of saying the most a,in pleasant things
before your face. Of all her family, there
remained only her grand-daughter, whose
father had died very young.

Of a fortune originally large, she had

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

47

been able to preserve but a small remnant,
on which she supported her small house-
hold in genteel, or rather aristocratic pov-
erty. She was, however, proprietor of the
pretty little house in which she lived, near
the Invalides, situated between a rather
narrow court and a very extensive and
beautiful garden.

So circumstanced, she considered her-
self the most unfortunate of God’s creatures,
and passed the greater part of her time
crying, miserere ! From time to time, she
declared she expected to be reduced to ab-
solute beggary, and to die in a hospital.

A friend of M. Daburon’s presented him
one evening to the Marquise d’Arlanges,
having dragged him to her house in a
mirthful mood, saying, “ Come with me,
and I will show you a phenomenon, — a
ghost of the past in flesh and bone.”

The marquise received the magistrate
graciously enough ; and her eccentricities
amused him. On his second visit, she
amused him still more ; for which reason,
he came a third time. But she amused
him no longer ; henceforth, every faculty
of his soul was absorbed in studying the
charms of the young and tender rose who
was blooming into loveliness, in this to him
henceforth enchanted dwelling.

Madame d’ Arlanges conceived a violent
friendship for him, and became eloquent in
his praises.

“ A most charming young man,” she de-
clared, “ delicate and sensible 1 What a
pity he was not born — ” (Her ladyship
meant born of noble parentage, but used
the phrase as ignoring the fact of the unfor-
tunates who are not noble having been born
at all ;) “ although it is plainly to be seen he
ought to be. His family, by the father’s
side, were people of considerable impor-
tance ; and his mother was a Cottevise, who
made a mesalliance. I approve of the young
man, and shall advance him in the world
by my countenance.”

The strongest proof of the favorable im-
pression he had made upon the marquise
was, that she condescended to pronounce
his name like the rest of the world. She
preserved this affectation of forgetfulness
of the names of people who were not “ born,”
and who in consequence have no right to
names. She was so confirmed in this habit,
that, if by accident she pronounced the
name of one of those people correctly, she
repeated it immediately in some ridiculous
manner.

At his first visit, the judge was amused
to hear his name changed every time she
addressed him in the most unaccountable
way. Successively she made it Taburon,

Dabiron, Maliron, Laridon ; but, in less
than three months, she called him Daburon
as distinctly as if he had been a duke of
something, and seigneur of somewhere.

On occasions, she amused herself, endeav-
oring to prove to the worthy magistrate
that he must be noble, or at least ought to
be. She would have been happy, if she
had succeeded in making him wrap himself
up in a title, and put a coat of arms upon
his visiting cards.

“ How is it possible,” said she, “ that
your ancestors, eminent, wealthy, and influ-
ential, never thought of purchasing a title
for their descendants ? What a pity they
have not left you some presentable coat of
arms! ”

“My ancestors were proud,” responded
M. Daburon. “ They preferred being fore-
most among their fellow-citizens to becom-
ing newly-created nobles.”

Upon which the marquise explained, and
proved to a demonstration, that between
the most influential and wealthy untitled
citizen and the smallest scion of nobility,
there was an abyss that all the money in
the world could not fill up.

They who were surprised at the fre-
quency of the magistrate’s visits to this cel-
ebrated “ relic of the past ” had no idea
that the real attraction was not the mar-
quise, but her grand-daughter, Claire, whose
presence converted the old-fashioned house
into a bower of enchantment.

Mademoiselle Claire d’ Arlanges had al-
ready seen seventeen summers. She was
very gracious and sweet in manner, and rav-
ishing in her natural innocence and fearless-
ness of harm. She had blonde, ash-col-
ored hair, very fine and thick, which slfe
wore over a large roll above her forehead,
and which fell in large masses upon her
neck, in the most artless fashion imaginable.
Her figure, though graceful, was rather
slender ; but her face recalled the celestial
pictures of Guido. Her blue eyes, shaded
by long lashes of a hue darker than her
hair, had above all an adorable expres-
sion.

A certain air of antiquity, caught from
association with her grandmother, added
yet another charm to the young girl’s man-
ners. She had more sense, however, than
her relative ; and, as her education was
not neglected, she had imbibed ideas of the
world in which she lived sufficiently exact
to preserve her from imitating her grand-
mother’s absurdities. This education, these
practical ideas, Claire owed to her govern-
ess, upon whose shoulders the marquise had
thrown the sole responsibility of cultivating
her mind.

48

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

This governess, Mademoiselle Schmidt,
chosen at hazard, taken “ with eyes shut,”
happened by the most fortunate chance to
be both well informed and possessed of
principle. She was, what is often met
with on the other side of the Rhine, a woman
at once romantic and practical, of the ten-
derest sensibility and the severest virtue.
This good woman, while she carried her
pupil into the land of sentimental phantasy
and poetical imaginings, gave her at the
same time the most practical instruction in
matters relating to actual life; and, while
she deprived Claire of all the peculiarities
of thought and manner that rendered her
grandmother so ridiculous, she preserved in
her mind all the respect that was due to
her position and the relations between
them.

This was the young girl who attracted
M. Daburon to Madame d’ Arlanges’ salon,
where he sat evening after evening, listen-
ing, without hearing, to her rigmaroles, her
interminable anecdotes of the emigration ;
while he gazed upon Claire, as a fanatic
upon his idol. Often, in his ecstasy, he
forgot where he was for the moment, ab-
solutely became oblivious of the old lady’s
presence ; although her shrill voice was
piercing the tympanum of his ear, as a
needle goes through cloth. Suddenly re-
called to consciousness, he answered her at
cross-purposes, committing the most singu-
lar blunders, which he labored afterwards
to explain. But this did not much impede
the conversation. Madame d’ Arlanges did
not perceive her courtier’s absence of mind ;
and her questions were of such a length,
and succeeded each other so rapidly, that
the answers were of little consequence.
Having a listener, she was satisfied, pro-
vided that from time to time he gave signs
of life.

When obliged to sit down to piquet, he
cursed below his breath the game and
its detestable inventor. He paid no atten-
tion to his cards. He made mistakes every
moment, dealt without seeing, and forgot to
cut. The old dame was annoyed by these
continual distractions ; but she did not
scruple to profit by them. She watched
the deal, rectified all mistakes ; while she
counted audaciously points she never made,
and pocketed his money without remorse.

As Daburon’s timidity was extreme, and
Claire was unsociable to excess, they never
spoke to each other. During the entire
winter, the judge did not address ten times
a direct word to the young girl ; and, on
these rare occasions, he had learned by
heart mechanically the phrase he proposed
to repeat to her, well knowing that, without

this precaution, he would be obliged to re-
main silent.

But at least he saw her, he breathed the
same air with her, he heard her voice,
whose pure and harmonious vibrations
thrilled his very soul.

By constantly watching her eyes, he
learned to understand all their expressions.
He believed he could read in them all her
thoughts, and through them look into her
soul as into an open window.

“ She is pleased to-day, ” said he to
himself ; and then he was happy. At other
times, he thought, “ She has met with some
annoyance to-day ; ” and immediately he
became sad.

The idea of asking for her hand many
times presented itself to his imagination ;
but he never dared to entertain it. Know-
ing, as he did, the marquise’s prejudices, her
devotion to titles, her dread of mesalliance,
he was convinced she would reject his suit ;
and he did not dare to risk the dissolution
of his present happiness upon so slender a
hope of success. Poor man 1 he had reached
the altitude of love where it feeds upon its
own misery.

“ Once repulsed, ” he thought, “ the
house is shut against me ; and then farewell
to happiness : this life is finished for me.”

Upon the other hand, the very rational
thought occurred to him that some other
might see Mademoiselle d’ Arlanges ; seeing,
love her, and, in consequence, demand and
perhaps obtain her.

In either case, hazarding a proposal, or
hesitating still, he must certainly lose her
in the end. By the commencement of
spring, his mind was made up.

One fine afternoon, in the month of April,
he bent his steps towards the Hotel d’
Arlanges, having truly need of more brav-
ery than if he were a soldier, about to face
a battery. He, like the soldier, whispered
to himself “ Victory or death ! ” The mar-
quise, who had gone out shortly after break-
fast, had just returned in a terrible rage,
and was uttering screams like an eagle.

This was what had taken place. She
had had some work done by a neighboring
painter some eight or ten months before ;
and the workman presented himself a hun-
dred times to receive payment, without
avail. Tired of this proceeding, he had
summoned the high and mighty Marquise
d’Arlanges before the courts.

This summons had exasperated the mar-
quise ; but she kept the matter to herself,
having decided, in her wisdom, to call upon
the judge of the court himself, and request
him to reprimand the insolent painter who
had dared to plague her for a paltry sum

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

49

of money. The result of this fine project
may be guessed. The j udge had been com-
elled to eject her forcibly from his office;
ence her fury.

M. Daburon found her in the rose-col-
ored boudoir in half dishabille, and com-
plete disorder of head-dress, red as a peony,
surrounded by the debris of glass and china
which had fallen under her hands in the
first moments of her passion. To complete
her annoyance, Claire and her governess
were gone out. An excited and terrified
femme de cliambre was inundating the old
lady with water, in the hope of calming her
nerves.

She received Daburon as a messenger
direct from Providence. In a little more
than half an hour, she told her story, in-
terlarded with interjections and impreca-
tions.

“ Do you comprehend this judge ? ” cried
she. “ This must be some frantic Jacobin, —
some son of the furies, who washed their
hands in the blood of their king. Oh ! my
friend, I read stupor and indignation on
your visage. He has listened to the com-
plaint of this buffoon, to whom I have given
the means of living, by employing him.
And when I waited upon him in his office,
and addressed to him, as I owed it to my-
self to do, some severe remonstrances, he
actually turned me out of the room ! me !
turned me out ! ”

At this painful recollection, she made a
fierce gesture with her arms. In her sud-
den movement, she struck a superb flacon,
which the femme de chambre was holding.
The blow dashed it to pieces against the
wall of the boudoir.

“ Stupid, awkward fool ! ” she cried, turn-
ing^ her anger upon the frightened girl.

Daburon, stunned at first, now endeav-
ored to calm her exasperation. She did
not allow him to pronounce three words.

“ Happily you are here,” she continued :
“I have told you all. I count upon you !
you will exercise your influence, your pow-
erful friends, your credit, to have this pitiful
painter and this miscreant of a judge flung
into some deep ditch, to teach them tjie
respect due to a woman of my rank.”

The magistrate did not permit himself
even to smile at this imperative demand.
He had heard many speeches as absurd
issue from her lips without daring to per-
ceive their absurdity. Was she not Claire’s
grandmother ? for that he loved and ven-
erated her. He blessed her for her grand-
daughter, as an admirer of nature blesses
heaven for the wild flower that delights
him with its perfume.

The fury of the old lady was terrible ;

4

nor was it of short duration. It was able,
like the anger of Achilles, to last through
ten chapters. At the end of an hour, how-
ever, she was, or appeared to be, pacified.
They replaced her head-dress, repaired the
disorder of her toilette, and picked up the
fragments of broken china. Vanquished
by her own violence, the reaction was im-
mediate and complete. She fell back help-
less and exhausted in the arm-chair.

This magnificent result was due to the
magistrate. To accomplish it, he had to use
all his ability, to exercise the most angelic
patience, the greatest tact. His triumph
was the more meritorious, because he came
unprepared for this adventure, which in-
terfered with his intended proposal. He
had arrived filled with something like a
resolve to speak of his wishes ; and this
untoward event declared against him : but
he had a good heart to oppose to misfor-
tune.

Arming himself with his professional elo-
quence, he talked the old lady into calm-
ness. He was not so foolish as to contra-
dict her. On the contrai’y, he caressed her
hobby. He was humorous and pathetic by
turns. He attacked the authors of the
revolution, cursed its errors, deplored its
crimes, and reviewed its disastrous results.
From the infamous Marat, by an adroit
allusion he attacked the infamous judge
who had offended her. He abused the
scandalous conduct of the magistrate in
good set terms, and was awfully severe
upon the dishonest scamp of a painter,
lie declared that they deserved the lowest
dungeon in the Bastile ; but the conclusion
to which he arrived was, that the severest
blow she could administer to thfe man’s
impertinence and the judge’s incapacity
would be to pay the bill, and compel them
to give her a receipt in full for all demands.

The discontented syllable “ pay” brought
Madame d’ Arlanges to her feet in the fierc-
est attitude.

“ Pay ! ” she screamed. “ In order that
these scoundrels may persist in their obdu-
racy? encourage them by a culpable
weakness ? Never 1 And, moreover, to
pay, it is necessary to have money ; and I
have none 1 ”

“ Why,” said the judge, “ it amounts to
but eighty-seven francs ! ”

“ And is that nothing? ” asked the mar-
quise : “ you talk very easily, M. Daburon.
It is easy to see that you have money :
your ancestors were people of no rank ; and
the revolution passed a hundred feet above
their heads. Who can tell whether they
may not have been the gainers by it ? It
has taken all from the d’ Arlanges.

50

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

What will they do to me, if I do not
pay?”

“ Well, madame le marquise, many
things, — ruin you, in short : you will receive
a notification from the courts. If that is
not attended to, your furniture will be
seized.”

“ Alas ! ” cried the old lady, “ the revolu-
tion is not over yet. We have not passed
through all its horrors ! How fortunate
you are, M. Daburon, in being of the
people ! I see plainly that I must pay this
man ; and it is frightfully sad for me, who
have nothing, and am forced to make such
sacrifices for sake of my grandchild ! ”

The word “ sacrifices ” surprised the
magistrate so strongly that involuntarily he
repeated it half-aloud, “ Sacrifices ? ”

“ Certainly ! ” replied Madame d’Ar-
langes. “ Without her, would I have to
live as I am doing, refusing myself every
thing to make both ends meet? Was it
not for her sake I placed all that I pos-
sessed in the funds, and lost it? But Ido
not consider myself. I know, thank heav-
en, the duties of a mother ; and I guard
all mine well for my little Claire.”

To this extraordinary devotion, M.
Daburon had no reply to make.

“ Ah ! this dear child torments me
terribly,” continued the marquise. “ I
confess, M. Daburon, it makes me giddy
when I think of her establishment.”

The judge reddened with pleasure. The
occasion had come at a gallop. She was
turning to leave the room, when he de-
tained her.

“ It seems to me,” stammered he, “ that
to establish Mademoiselle Claire ought to be
easy.”

“ Unfortunately, it is any thing but easy.
She is pretty enough, although unpolished ;
but, now-a-days, beauty goes for nothing.
Men are so mercenary they think only of
money. I do not know of one who has the
manhood to take a d’Arlanges with her
bright eyes for a dowry.”

“I believe that you exaggerate,” said
the judge timidly.

“ By no means. Besides, when I find a
son-in-law, he will cause me a thousand
troubles. Of this, I am assured by my
lawyer. I can be compelled, it seems, to
render an account of Claire’s patrimony.
As if I ever kept accounts 1 It is shame-
ful. Ah 1 if Claire had any sense of filial
duty, she would quietly take the veil in
some convent. I would use every effort to
pay the necessary dower ; but she has no
affection for me.”

Daburon felt that the time to speak had
arrived. He collected his courage, as a good

horseman pulls his horse together the mo-
ment he faces the leap, and in a voice,
which he tried to render firm, commenced, —

“ Madame, I know, I believe, just the
person for Mademoiselle Claire, — an honest
man, who loves her, and who will do every
thing in the world to make her happy.”

“ That,” said Madame d’ Arlanges, “ is
always understood.”

“ The man of whom I speak,” continued
the judge, “ is still young, and is rich. He
will be only too happy to receive Mademoi-
selle Claire without dowry. Not only will he
decline an examination of your accounts of
guardianship, but he will supply you with
means to free your own property of all
incumberance.”

“Peste ! ” exclaimed the old dame ;
“ you are not a bad friend, M. Daburon ! ”

“ If you prefer to place your fortune in
an annuity, your son-in-law will make
good whatever deficiency remains.”

“ Ah ! I am suffocating. If you have
known such a man, why have you not
already presented him ? ”

“I did not dare, madame : I was afraid.”

“ Quick ! tell me who is this admirable
son-in-law, — this white blackbird? where
does he nestle ? ”

The judge felt a strange fluttering of
the heart : he was going to stake his happi-
ness on a word. At length, he stam-
mered,—

“ It is I, madame I ”

His voice, his look, his suppliant gesture,
were ridiculous in the eyes of the old lady ;
and she laughed till the tears came. He,
frightened at his own audacity, stunned at
having vanquished his timidity, was on the
point of falling at her feet. At last, rais-
ing her shoulders, she cried, —

“ My dear Daburon, you are too ridicu-
lous ! In good truth, you will make me
die of laughing.”

But suddenly, in the very height of her
merriment, she stopped, and assumed her
most dignified air.

“ Are you perfectly serious in all you
have told me, M. Daburon ? ”

“ I have stated the truth,” murmured
the judge.

“You are very rich, then ? ”

“ I have, madame, in right of my mother,
about twenty thousand livres a year. One
of my uncles died about a year ago, leaving
me a hundred thousand crowns. Mv father
is worth not less than a million. "Were I
to ask him for the half to-morrow, he would
give it to me. He would give me all his
fortune, if it were necessary to my happi-
ness, and be but too well contented, should
I relieve him of its administration.”

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

51

Madame d’Arlanges made a sign to him ^"*He walked with his head high, his chest

HP SI I P T1 1" • 54 n n "T rw n ir O /vaa/"1 1 n nl a o n rl il n+rv /I n 4- » %-» /«* 4- 1-* n i i I 1» i « -• 11 ^ ^

to be silent ; and, for five good minutes at
least, she remained plunged in reflection,
her forehead resting in her hands. At
length she raised her head.

“ Hear me,” said she. “ Had you been
so hardy as to make this proposal to
Claire’s father, he would have called his
servants to show you the door ; but I am
old and desolate. I am poor. My grand-
child’s prospects disquiet me ; and that is
my excuse for not acting in like manner.
I cannot, however, consent to speak to
Claire of this horrible mesalliance. This
much I can promise you; and it is
much, I will not be against you. Take
your own measures. Pay your addresses
to Mademoiselle d’Arlanges. Let her
decide. If she says ‘yes,’ I shall not say
‘ no.’ ”

Daburon, transported with happiness,
would have embraced the old lady, if he
dared. He never dreamed of the facility
with which this fierce soul had been brought
to yield. He was delirious.

“ Wait 1 ” said the old lady ; “ your cause
is not yet gained. Your mother, it is true,
was a Cottevise ; and I must excuse her for
marrying so wretchedly : but your father is
Sieur Daburon. This name, my dear friend,
is simply ridiculous. Do you think it will
be possible to wrap up in Daburon a young
girl who for eighteen years has been called
d’Arlanges ? ”

This objection did not seem to trouble the
judge.

“ After all,” continued the old lady, “ your
father has gained a Cottevise : you may win
a d’Arlanges ; and, on the strength of an al-
liance with the daughter of a house whose
nobility has descended from sire to son for so
many generations, the Daburons may end
by being ennobled. Who knows? One
last advice : you believe Claire to be just
as she looks, — timid, sweet, obedient. Un-
deceive yourself, my friend. With her
saintly air and delicate touch, she is hardy,
fierce, and obstinate as the marquis her
father was, who resembled a mule of
Auvergne. You see, I forewarn you. Our
conditions are agreed to, are they not ?
Let us say no more on the subject. I wish
you every success. ”

This scene was so present to his mind, as
he sat there at midnight in his own house in
his arm-chair, after so long a lapse of time,
that he still seemed to hear the old lady’s
voice ; and this word “ success ” sounded in
his ear.

He departed in triumph from the Hotel
d’Arlanges, which, he had entered with a
heart swelling with anxiety.

dilated, breathing the air with full respira-
tions.

He was so happy ! The sky appeared to
him more blue, the sun more brilliant.

The grave magistrate felt a mad desire to
stop the passers by, to press them in his
arms, to cry to them, —

“Do you not know, the marquise con-
sents ? ”

He walked ; and the earth seemed to him
to bound beneath his steps. He felt too
small to contain his happiness, too light to
remain on the earth. He was going to fly
away towards the stars.

What a castle in Spain did he build
upon this little word of the marquise ! He
tendered his resignation. He built on the
banks of the Loire, not far from Tours,
an enchanting little villa. He saw it smiling,
with its fa9ade to the rising sun, seated
in the midst of flowers, and shaded with
great trees. He furnished this dwelling as
if for the reception of the queen of the
fairies. He wished to provide a casket
wortny the pearl he was going to possess,
for he had not a dread of shipwreck, to ob-
scure the horizon made radiant by his hopes,
not a voice at the bottom of his heart raised
itself to cry, “ Beware ! ”

From this time, his visits to the marquise
became more frequent. He might be said
to live at her house.

While he preserved his respectful and re-
served demeanor towards Claire, he strove
assiduously to be something in her life. He
strove to conquer his timidity, to speak to
this well beloved of his soul, — to con-
verse with her, to interest her.

He went in quest of novelty, to amuse her.
He read all the new books, and brought to
her all that were fit for her to read.

Little by little he succeeded, thanks to the
most delicate persistence, in taming his
wood pigeon. He began to perceive that
her fear of him had almost disappeared, that
she no longer received him with the cold
and haughty air which so long had kept
him at a distance. He felt that insensibly
he was advancing in her confidence. She
still blushed when she spoke to him ; but
she no longer hesitated to address the first
word. She even ventured at times to ask
him a question. She had heard a play
spoken of, and wished to know the subject.
M. Daburon quickly ran to see it, and com-
mitted a complete account of it to writing,
which he addressed to her by mail. At times
she entrusted him with trifling commissions,
the execution of which he would not have ex-
changed for a Russian embassy.

Once he ventured to send her a magnifi-

52

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

cent bouquet. She accepted it with an air
of surprised disquietude, and begged him
not to repeat the offering.

The tears came to his eyes ; and he left
her presence wounded, — the unhappiest of
men.

But, three days after, she raised him from
this despair, by begging him to look for
certain flowers, then very much in fashion,
she wanted for her little garden. He sent
enough to fill the house from the garret to
the cellar.

“ She loves me,” he whispered to himself.

These little events, so great, had not inter-
rupted the parties at piquet ; only the young
girl now appeared interested in the game,
nearly always taking part with the judge
against the marquise. She did not under-
stand the game very well ; but, when the
old gambler cheated too openly, she would
perceive it, and say, laughing, —

“ She is robbing you, M. Daburon, — she
is robbing you ! ”

He would willingly be robbed of his entire
fortune, to hear that sweet voice raised for
him.

It was summer.

Often in the evening she accepted his
arm ; and, while the marquise remained in
the porch, seated in her arm-chair, they
walked around the garden, treading lightly
upon the paths spread with gravel, sifted so
fine that the trailing of her light robe ef-
faced the traces of their footsteps. She
chatted gaily with him, as with a beloved
brother ; while he was obliged to do vio-
lence to his feelings, to refrain from imprint-
ing a kiss upon the little blonde head, from
which the light breeze lifted the curls and
scattered them like fleecy clouds. At such
moments, he seemed to tread a triumphant
path, strewn with flowers, and saw at the
end happiness.

He attempted to speak of his hopes to
the marquise.

“ You know what we have agreed upon,”
she would say. “Not a word. Already
does the voice of conscience reproach me
with my fault in lending my countenance
to this abomination. To think that I may
one day have a grand-daughter who calls
herself Daburon ! I must petition the king,
my friend, to change this name.”

If, instead of intoxicating himself with
dreams of happiness, this acute observer
had studied the character of his idol, the
effect might have been to put him upon his
guard.

In the mean while, he remarked singular
alterations in her humor. On certain days,
she was gay and careless as a child. Then,
for a week, she would remain sombre and

dejected. Seeing her in this state the day
following a ball, to which her grandmother
had taken her, he dared to ask her the
reason of her sadness.

“ Oh ! that,” answered she, heaving a
deep sigh, “ is my secret, — a secret of
which even my grandmother knows noth-
ing.”

Daburon looked at her. He thought he
saw a tear between her long eyelashes.

“ One day,” continued she, “ I may con-
fide in you : it will be necessary, perhaps.”

The judge was blind and deaf.

“ I also,” answered he, “ have a secret,
which I wish to confide to you in return.”

When retiring, after midnight, he said to
himself, “ To-morrow I will confess every
thing to her.”

There passed a little more than fifty
days, during which he kept repeating to
himself, —

“ To-morrow ! ”

One evening in the month of August, —
th*e heat all day had been overpowering, —
a breeze had risen. The leaves rustled :
there were signs of a storm in the atmos-
phere.

They were seated together at the bottom
of the garden, under the arbor, adorned
with flowers which Claire had planted;
and, through the branches, they perceived
the fluttering head-dress of the marquise,
who was taking her accustomed walk after
supper.

They had remained a long time without
speaking, enjoying the perfume of the flow-
ers, the calm beauty of the evening. Dabu-
ron had ventured to take the young girl’s
hand.

It was the first time ; and the touch of
her slender fingers thrilled through every
fibre of his frame, and drove the blood
surging to his brain.

“ Mademoiselle,” stammered he, “ Claire,”

She stopped him, by turning upon him
her beautiful eyes, filled with astonish-
ment.

“ Pardon me,” continued he, — “ pardon
me. I have addressed your grandmother,
before venturing to speak to you. Do you
not understand me, Claire ? A word from
your lips decides my future happiness or
misery. Claire, mademoiselle, I love you ! ”

While the magistrate was speaking,
the young girl looked at him as though
doubtful of the evidence of her senses ;
but at the words, “ I love you 1 ” pronounced
with the trembling accents of passion, she
disengaged her hand rudely, and uttered a
stifled cry.

“ You,” murmured she, — “ is this really
you ? ”

THE WIDOW LEROUGR

53

M. Daburon, at this the most critical mo-
ment of his life, was powerless to utter a
word. The presentiment of an immense
misfortune oppressed his heart. What di-
vined he, when he saw Claire burst into a
flood of tears.

She hid her face between her hands, and
repeated, —

“ I am very unhappy, very unhappy ! ”

‘ You unhappy ? ” cried the magistrate.
“ And through me, Claire ? You are cruel !
In heaven’s name, what have I done ?
What is the matter ? Speak ! Any thing
rather than this anxiety, which is killing
me ! ”

He knelt before her on the gravelled
walk, and made an attempt to again take
her hand. She repulsed him with an im-
ploring gesture.

“ Let me weep,” said she ; “ you are go-
ing to hate me. I feel it. Who knows, to
despise me, perhaps ? And yet I swear
before heaven that I was ignorant of what
you have just said to me, that I had not
even a suspicion of it ! ”

Daburon remained upon his knees, await-
ing his doom.

“ Yes,” continued Claire, “ you will think
you have been the victim of a detestable
coquetry. I see it now ! I comprehend
every thing ! Is it possible, that, without a
profound love, a man cannot be all that
you have been to me ? Alas ! I was de-
ceived. I gave myself up to the great hap-
piness of having a friend ! Am I not alone
in the world, as if lost in a desert ? Mad
and imprudent, I devoted myself to you
without reflection, as to the most indulgent
of fathers.”

These words revealed to the unfortunate
judge a complete understanding of his
error. As a hammer of steel, it smashed
into a thousand fragments the fragile edi-
fice of his hopes. He raised himself
slowly ; and, in a tone of involuntary re-
proach, he repeated, —

“ Your father I ”

The young girl felt how deeply she had
wounded him ; but she knew not the intense
depth of his love.

“ Yes,” she repeated, “ a father ! Seeing
you, so grave and austere, become for me
so good, so indulgent, I thanked heaven for
sending me a protector to replace the
father I have lost.”

Daburon could not restrain a sob : his
heart was breaking.

“ One word,” continued Claire, — “one
6incrle word, would have enlightened me.
That word, until to-night, you have never
ronounced. And with what comfort I
ave leaned upon you, as an infant upon

its mother ; with what inward joy ! have
said to myself, 1 1 am sure of one friend, —
one heart into which runs the overflow of
mine.’ Ah ! why was not my confidence
greater ? Why have I with-held my secret
from you ? I would have avoided this fear-
ful calamity. I ought to have long since
told what I must tell you now. I belong
not to myself, but to another, to whom I
have freely and with happiness given my

To hover in the clouds, and suddenly be
cast rudely to the earth. The sufferings
of the judge are not to be described.

“ Better had I had the courage to speak
long since,” answered he ; “ yet, no : I owe
to silence six months of delicious illusions,

— six months of enchanting dreams. This
shall be my share of life’s happiness.”

The last beams of closing day per-
mitted the magistrate again . to see Mad-
emoiselle d’ Arlanges. Her beautiful face
was blanched to a deathlike whiteness,
and was immovable in its expression as
marble. Large tears rolled silently down
her cheeks. Daburon seemed to contemp-
late the frightful spectacle of a weeping
statue.

“ You love another,” said he at length,

— “ another ? and your grandmother is
ignorant ? Claire, you cannot have chosen
a man unworthy of your love? How is
it your grandmother does not receive
him ? ”

“ There are certain obstacles,” murmur-
ed Claire, — “ obstacles which perhaps we
may never be able to remove ; but a
girl like me can love but once. She mar-
ries him she loves, or she remains with
heaven ! ”

“ Certain obstacles,” said M. Daburon in
a hollow voice. “ You love a man : he
knows it ; and he meets with obstacles ? ”

“ I am poor,” answered Mademoiselle
d’ Arlanges ; “ and his family is immensely
rich. His father is cruel, inexorable.”

“ His father,” cried the magistrate, with
a bitterness he did not dream of hiding, —
“ his father, his family ; and that with-holds
him ? You are poor : he is rich ; and that stops
him, and he knowsyou love him ? Ah ! why am
I not in his place ; and why have not I against
me the entire universe V What sacrifice could
compare with love like mine ? Nay, would
it be a sacrifice ? What to others might
appear so, to me would be simply joy. Suffer,
struggle, wait, so long as hope remains ;
that is to lov§.”

“ It is thus I love,” said Claire with sim-
plicity.

This answer crushed the judge. He un-
derstood that for him there was no hope ;

54

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

but lie felt a terrible enjoyment in plumb-
ing tlie depth of his misfortune.

“ But,” insisted he, “ how have you
known him, spoken to him? Where?
When ? Madame d’Arlanges receives no
one.”

“ I will tell you every thing,” answered
she in a decided tone. “ It is a long time
since I have known him. It was at the
house of one of my grandmother’s friends,
who was a cousin of his, — old Mademoi-
selle Goello, — that I saw him for the first
time. There we first met ; there we meet
each other now.”

“ Ah 1” cried Daburon to himself, “ I re-
member now. A few days before your
visit to Mademoiselle Goello, you are gayer
than usual ; and, when you return, you are
often sad.”

“ That is because I see how much he is
pained by the obstacles he cannot over-
come.”

“ His family is, then, so illustrious,” said
he, “ that it disdains alliance with yours?”

4 You shall know every thing, without
question, monsieur,” answered Mademoi-
selle d’Arlanges. “ His name is Albert de
Commarin.”

The marquise, at this moment, thinking
she had walked enough, prepared to regain
her rose-colored boudoir. She approached
the arbor.

“ Incorruptible magistrate ! ” said she, in
her great voice, “ the table is set for piquet:”

Mechanically the magistrate arose, stam-
mering, “ I am coming.”

Claire held his arm.

“ I have not asked you to be secret, mon-
sieur,” said she.

“ O mademoiselle 1 ” said the judge,
wounded by this appearance of doubt.

“ I know,” said Claire, “ that I can count
upon you ; but, come what will, my tran-
quillity is lost.”

Daburon regarded her with an air of
surprise ; his eye questioned her.

It is certain,” said she, answering the
look, “ that what I, a young and inexperi-
enced girl, have failed to see, has not been
unnoticed by my grandmother. That she
has continued to receive you is a tacit en-
couragement of your addresses; which I
consider, permit me to say, as very hon-
orable to me.”

“ I have already mentioned, Mademoi-
selle, that the marquise has deigned to au-
thorize my hopes.”

And briefly he related his interview with
Madame d’Arlanges, having the delicacy
to omit absolutely the question of money,
which had so strongly influenced the old
lady.

“ I see very plainly what effect this will
have on my peace,” said she sadly, “ when
she learns that I have not received your
homage.”

“ You do not know me, mademoiselle,”
said he. “ I have nothing to say to the
marquise. I will retire; and all will be
concluded.”

“ Oh ! you are good and generous, I
know ! ”

“ I will go away,” pursued Daburon ; “and
soon you will have forgotten even the name
of the unfortunate whose life is broken.”

“ You do not mean what you say ? ”
asked the young girl quickly.

“ Well, no. I will flatter myself with a
hope, that, later, my remembrance will not
be without pleasure to you. Sometimes you
will say, ‘ He loved me,’ and think of me
as a ftiend, — your most devoted friend.”

Claire, in her turn, took with emotion
his hands within her own.

“ Yes,” said she ; “ you must remain my
friend. Let us forget what has happened,
— what you have said to-night, — and re-
main to me, as in the past, the best, the
most indulgent of brothers.”

The darkness had come, and she could
not see him ; but she knew he was weep-
ing, for he was slow to answer.

“ Is it possible,” murmured he at length,
“ that you can ask that ? Do you, who
talk to me of forgetting, feel the power to
forget ? Do you not know that I love you
a thousand times more than you love — ”

He stopped, unable to pronounce the
name of Commarin ; and then, with an ef-
fort, he added, “ and I shall love you al-
ways.”

He had left the arbor, and was now on
the steps of the porch.

“ And now, mademoiselle, adieu ! You
will see me again rarely. I shall only re-
turn often enough to avoid the appearance
of a rupture.”

His voice trembled, so that with difficul-
ty he made it distinct.

“ Whatever may come in the future,”
added he, “ remember that there is one in
the world who belongs to you absolutely.
If ever you have need of a friend’s devotion,
come to me, come to your friend Let me
go. It is over. I have courage, Claire.
Mademoiselle, for the last time, adieu ! ”

She was little less dismayed than he was.
Instinctively she advanced her head ; and
M. Daburon touched lightly with his cold
lips, for the first and last time, the forehead ■
of her he loved so well.

They mounted, the steps, she leaning on
his arm, and entered the rose-colored bou-
doir where the marquise was seated, impa-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

55

tiently shuffling the cards, while awaiting
her victim.

“ Now, then, incorruptible judge,” cried
she.

But Daburon felt sick at heart. He
could not have held the cards. He stam-
mered some absurd excuses, spoke of press-
ing affairs, of duties to be attended to, of
unexpected news, and went out, clinging
to the walls.

His departure made the old cardplayer
indignant. She turned to her grand-daugh-
ter, who was endeavoring to hide her con-
fusion behind the wax candles of the card-
table, and demanded, —

“ What has happened to M. Daburon
this evening ? ”

“ I do not know, madame, ” stammered
Claire.

“It appears .to me, continued the mar-
quise, “ that the little judge permits himself
to take singular liberties. He must be re-
minded of his proper place, or he will finish
by believing himself our. equal.”

Claire essayed to justify the magistrate.

“ He has been complaining all the even-
ing, grandmamma ; may he not be sick ? ”

“ What if he should be ? ” exclaimed the
old lady. “ Is it not his duty to exercise
some self-denial, in return for the honor of
our company ? I think I have already re-
lated to you the story of your granduncle,
the Duke de St. Iiurluge, who, having at-
tended the king’s hunting party, on their re-
turn from the chase lost with the best grace
in the world two hundred and twenty
pistoles. All the assembly remarked his
gaiety and his good humor. The follow-
ing day it was learned, that, during the
chase, he had fallen from his horse and
had sat at his majesty’s card-table with
a broken rib, rather than mar the en-
joyment of the company by a com-
plaint. Nobody made any outcry, so per-
fectly natural did an act of ordinary polite-
ness appear in those days. This little
judge, if he is sick, should have given proof
of his breeding by saying nothing about it,
and remaining for my piquet. But he is
as well as I am. Who can tell what games
he has gone to play elsewhere ? ”

CHAPTER VII.

Daburon did not return home on leav-
ing the Hotel d’ Arlanges. All the night he
wandered at random, he knew not whither,
seeking a little coolness for his burning

head, a little calm for his overloaded and
bursting heart.

“ Fool that I was, ” said he to himself.
“ Thousand times fool to have hoped, to
have believed, that she would ever love me.
Insensible 1 how could I have dreamed of
possessing so much grace, nobleness, and
beauty ! How charming she was this even-
ing, when her face was wet with tears.
Could any thing be more angelic ? What a
sublime expression her eyes had in speak-
ing of him ! How she must love him !
And I ? She loves me as a father. She
told me so, — as a father. And could it
be otherwise ? Is it not justice ? Ought
she to see a lover in this magistrate,
sombre and severe, always as sad as his
black costume? Was it not a crime to
dream of uniting that virginal simplicity
to my detestable worldly science? For
her, the future is yet the land of smiling
chimeras ; and long since experience has
dissipated all my illusions. She is as
young as Innocence : I am as old as Vice.”

The unfortunate magistrate made himself
veritably a horror. He understood Claire,
and he excused her. He even wished he
could himself suffer the sadness he had
brought upon her. He reproached himself
with having cast a shadow upon her life.
He could not forgive himself for having
spoken of his love. Ought he not to have
foreseen what had happened, — that she
would refuse him, that he ‘would thus de-
prive himself of the happiness of seeing
her, of hearing her, of silently adoring
her ?

“ A young and romantic girl, ” pursued
the judge, “ must have a lover she can
dream ofj — whom she can caress in imagi-
nation, as an ideal, pleasing herself by
seeing in him every great and brilliant qual-
ity, imagining him full of nobleness, of
bravery, of heroism. What would she see,
if, in my absence, she dreamed of me ?
Her imagination would present me dressed
in a funeral robe, in the depth of a glooniy
dungeon, engaged with some foul criminal.
Is it not my trade to descend into all the
moral sinks, to stir up the foulness of
crime ? Am I not compelled to wash in se-
crecy and shadow the foul linen of society ?
Ah! it is a fatal profession. Am I pun-
ished thus, because, like the priest, the
judge should condemn himself to solitude
and celibacy ? Both know all : they hear
all, their costumes are nearly the same;
but, while the priest in the fold of his black
robe carries consolation, the judge carries
terror. One is mercy, the other chastise-
ment. Such are the images awakened ;
while the other, — the other — ”

56

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

The wretched man continued his head-
long course along the deserted quays.

He went with his head bare, his eyes
haggard. To breathe more freely, he had
torn off his cravat and thrown it to the
winds.

Sometimes, unconsciously, he crossed the
path of a solitary wayfarer, who would
pause, touched with pity, and turn to watch
the retreating figure of the unfortunate
wretch ho thought deprived of reason.

In a by-road, near Grenelle, some officers
stopped, and tried to question him. He
mechanically tendered them his card. They
read it, and permitted him to pass, con-
vinced that he was drunk.

Anger, — a furious anger, began to re-
place his first feeling of resignation. In
his heart arose a hate, stronger and more
violent than even his love for Claire.

This other, this preferred, this noble vis-
count, who could not overcome these paltry
obstacles, oh, that he had him there, un-
der his knee !

At this moment, this noble and proud
man, this magistrate, so severe and grave,
felt an irresistible longing for vengeance.
He began to understand the hate that
armed itself with the poniard, and lay in
ambush in dark corners ; which struck in
the darkness, whether in the face or in the
back, it mattered little, but which struck,
which killed, — whose vengeance blood
alone could satisfy.

At this very hour, he was charged with
the conduct of an inquiry into the case of
an unfortunate young girl, accused of hav-
ing stabbed one of her wretched companions.

She was jealous of this woman, who had
tried to take her lover from her. He was
a soldier, very fat and very ugly.

Daburon felt himself seized with pity for
this miserable creature, whom he had com-
menced to examine the day previous.

She was very ugly, — truly repulsive ; but
the expression of her eyes, when speaking
of her soldier, returned to the memory of
the judge.

“ She loved him veritably,” thought he.
“ If each one of her jurors could suffer what
I am suffering now, she would be acquit-
ted. But how many men have had in their
lives a passion ? Perhaps not one in
twenty.”

He resolved to recommend this girl to
the indulgence of the tribunal, and extenu-
ate as much as he could the punishment
of her crime.

He had himself resolved upon the com-
mission of a crime.

He was resolved to kill Albert de Com-
marin.

During the rest of the night, he did but
confirm himself in this resolution, demon-
strating by a thousand mad reasons, which
he found solid and inscrutable, the neces-
sity for another legitimacy of this ven-
geance.

At seven o’clock in the morning, ho
found himself in an alley of the Bois de
Boulogne, not far from the lake. He
gained the Maillot gate, called a carriage,
and was driven to his house.

The delirium of the night continued, but
without suffering. He was conscious of no>
fatigue, — calm and cool apparently, but
under the empire of an hallucination, — in
a state approaching somnambulism.

He reflected and reasoned, but without
reason.

He dressed himself with care, as was his
custom formerly when visiting the Mar-
quise d’Arlanges, and went out.

He first called at an armorers, and
bought a small revolver, which he caused
to be carefully loaded under his own eyes,
and put into his pocket. He threw him-
self in the way of persons he supposed
capable of informing him to what club the
viscount belonged. No one perceived the
strange situation of his mind, so natural
were his manners and conversation.

It was not until the afternoon he found a
young friend, a member of Albert de Com-
marin’s club, who offered to conduct him
thither, and present him.

Daburon accepted warmly, and accom-
panied his friend.

While passing along, he grasped with
frenzy the handle of the revolver which
he kept concealed, thinking only of the
murder he determined to commit, and the
means of insuring the accuracy of his
aim.

“ This will make,” thought lie,.“ a terri-
ble scandal ; above all, if I do not succeed.
Well, if I fail, I shall go mad. They will
arrest me, — throw me into prison. I shall
be placed upon trial at the court of assize,
my name dishonored! Bast! what doe3
that import to me ? I am not loved by
Claire. What to me is all the rest ? My
father without doubt will die of grief; but
I must be revenged ! ”

Arrived at the club, his friend pointed
out to him a very distinguished looking
young man, of a brown complexion, with a
haughty air, or what appeared so to him,
who, seated at a table, was reading a review.
It was the viscount.

Daburon marched upon him without
drawing his revolver. Arrived within two
paces, his heart failed him : he turned sud-
denly and fled, leaving his friend aston-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

57

ished at a scene, to him utterly inexplica-
ble.

Albert de Commarin will be as near
death but once again.

When he reached the street, Daburon
felt the ground flying beneath his feet, —
every thing turning around him. He tried,
but was unable to cry out : he struck at
the air with his hands, reeled an instant,
and then fell helpless on the pavement.

The passers by ran and assisted the
police to raise him. In one of his pockets
they found hi3 address, and carried him to
his house. When he recovered his senses,
he lay upon his bed, at the foot of which he
perceived his father.

“ What has taken place ? ” he asked.
With much caution they told him, that for
six weeks he had wavered between life and
death. The doctors had declared his life
saved ; and, now that reason was restored,
all would go well.

Five minutes’ conversation exhausted
him. He shut his eyes, and tried to col-
lect his ideas ; but they whirled hither and
thither wildly, as autumn leaves in the
wind. The past seemed shrouded in a
dark mist ; yet, in the midst of all the dark-
ness and confusion, the memory of his
scene with Mademoiselle d’Arlanges stood
out before his mental vision clear and lu-
minous. All his actions up to the moment
when he embraced Claire were marked, as
in a picture strongly drawn. He trembled ;
and his hair was in a moment damp with
perspiration.

He had failed to become an assassin.

The proof that he was restored to full
possession of his faculties was, that a ques-
tion of criminal law crossed his brain.

“ The crime committed,” said he to him-
self, “ should I have been condemned ?
Yes. Was I responsible? No. Would
an action committed in a state of mental
alienation be a crime? Was I mad? Or
was I in a peculiar state of mind which
always precedes an illegal attempt ? Who
can answer? Why have not all judges
passed through an incomprehensible crisis
such as mine? Who would believe me,
were I to recount my experience ? ”

Some days later, he was sufficiently re-
covered to tell his father all. The old
gentleman shrugged his shoulders, and as-
sured him it was but a reminiscence of his
delirium.

The good old man was moved at the
story of his son’s luckless wooing, without
seeing therein an irreparable misfortune.
He advised him to think of something else,
placed at his disposal his entire fortune,
and recommended him to marry a stout

Poitevine heiress, very pretty and good
humored, who would make him an excel-
lent wife. Then, as his farm was suffering
by his absence, he returned to his province.
Two months later, the judge of inquiry
had resumed his ordinary avocations. But
it was hard work. He went through his
duties like a body without a soul. He felt
that his heart was broken.

Once he ventured to pay a visit to his
old friend, the marquise. On seeing him,
she uttered a cry of terror. She took him
for a spectre, so much was he changed in
appearance.

As she dreaded dismal figures, she shut
herself from him in the future.

Claire was sick for a week after seeing
him. “How he loved me 1” thought she.

“ He has almost died for me ! Does Albert
love me as much ? ”

She did not dare to answer herself. She
felt a desire to console him, to speak to him,
attempt something ; but he came no more.

Daburon was not, however, a man to be
overthrown without a struggle. He tried,
as his father advised him, to distract his
thoughts. He sought for pleasure, and found
disgust, but not forgetfulness. Often he
went so far as the threshold of dissipation ;
always the pure figure of Claire, dressed
in white garments, barred the doors
against him.

Then he took refuge in work, as in a
sanctuary ; condemned himself to the most
incessant labor, forbade himself to think of
Claire, as the consumptive forbids himself
to recollect his malady.

His asperity in his labor, his feverish
activity, was worth the reputation of an
ambitious man ; but he took no real inter-
est in any thing.

At length, though he found not rest, this
engrossing occupation exempted him from
the sorrow which commonly follows a great
catastrophe. The convalescence of obliv-
ion commenced.

These were the events, recalled to Dabu-
ron by Pere Tabaret, in pronouncing the
name of Commarin. He believed them
buried under the ashes of time ; and behold
they came up, as those characters traced
in sympathetic ink appear when held before
a fire, on paper apparently blank. In an
instant they unrolled themselves before
his memory, with the instantaneousness of
a dream, annihilating time and space.

During some minutes, he assisted at the
representation of his own life. At once
actor and spectator, he was there seated in
his arm-chair ; and he appeared to himself
as in a theatre. He acted, and he judged
himself.

58

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

His first thought, it must be confessed,
was one of hate, followed by a detestable
sentiment of satisfaction. Chance had
delivered to him this man preferred by
Claire, — this man no longer a haughty
gentleman, illustrious by his fortune and
his ancestors, but an illegitimate off-
spring of a femme convert. To guard a
stolen name, he had committed a most
cowardly assassination. And he, the judge,
was to experience the infinite gratification
of striking his enemy with the sword of
justice.

But this was only, a passing thought.
The conscience of the man revolted against
it, and made its powerful voice heard above
the whispers of selfishness.

“ Is any thing,” it cried, “ more monstrous
than the association of these two ideas, —
hatred and justice? A judge. Can he,
without despising himself more than the
vile beings he condemns, remind himself
that a criminal whose fate is in his hands
has been his enemy? A judge of inquiry.
Has he a right to sit in judgment on a man
against whom he harbors in his heart one
drop of gall ? ”

Daburon repeated to himself many times
during the year, on commencing an
inquiry, —

“ And I also, — I almost stained myself
with dreadful murder ! ^

And now observe what he was about to
do, — to arrest, interrogate, and hand over
to the court of assize the man he had once
the firm determination to kill.

All the world, it is true, ignores the
crime of thought and intention ; but could
he himself forget it ? Was not this, of all
others, a case to except against, to give his
resignation ? Ought he not to withdraw,
and wash his hands of bloodshed, leaving
to another the care of avenging society ?

“ No,” said he, “ it would be a cowardice
unworthy of me.”

A project of mad generosity came to him.
“If I save him,” murmured he, “ if for
sake of Claire I leave him his honor and
his life, — but how can I save him ? — I
shall be obliged to suppress Pere Tabaret’s
testimony, and impose upon him the com-
plicity of silence. It will be necessary to
make him voluntarily take a false road,
and run with Gevrol after a chimerical mur-
derer. Is this practicable ? On the other
hand, to spare Albert is to defame Noel ;
it is to assure impunity to the most odious
of crimes. In fine, it is to sacrifice human
justice to human feeling.”

The magistrate suffered.

How to choose a path in the midst of so
many perplexities 1 Dragged each way by

different interests, he wavered, undecided,
between determinations the most opposite,
his mind oscillating from one extreme to
the other.

What to do ? His reason after this new
and unforeseen shock vainly sought to re-
gain its equilibrium.

“ Retreat ? ” said he to himself. “ Where,
then, is my courage ? Ought I not rather
to remain the representative of the law,
incapable of emotion, insensible to preju-
dice ? Am I so feeble that, in assuming
my r61e, I am unable to divest myself of
my personality ? Can I not, for the pres-
ent, make abstraction of the past? My
duty is to pursue this inquiry. Claire hew
self would order me to act thus. Would
she desire to wed a man soiled by suspicion
of a crime ? Never. For Claire’s sake,
then, I will go on ; that, if innocent, he may
be restored to her, and, if guilty, she may be
delivered from all further contact with a
man so unworthy of her pure affection.”

This was very strong reasoning ; but, at
the bottom of his heart, a thousand disquie-
tudes darted their thorns. He wanted
something more to reassure him.

“ Do I still hate this young man ? ” he
continued. “No, certainly. If Claire has
preferred him to me, it is to Claire and not
him I owe my suffering. My fury was no
more than a passing fit of delirium. I
will prove it, by letting him find in me as
much of counsellor as judge. If he is not
guilty, he will dispose of all this formidable
array of evidence, placed by Pere Tabaret
in the hands of justice, by establishing
counter-proofs of his innocence. Yes, I am
able to be his judge. Heaven, who reads
the thoughts of all hearts, sees that- 1 love
Claire enough to wish with all tny heart
the innocence of her lover.”

At this moment, M. Daburon remembered
vaguely the lapse of time.

It was nearly three o’clock in the morn-

ing.

“ Goodness ! ” cried he, “ and Pere
Tabaret is waiting for me. I shall find
him asleep.”

But Pere Tabaret was not asleep. He
had felt the passage of time no more than
the judge.

Ten minutes had sufficed him to take an
inventory of the contents of Daburon’s
study ; which was large, and of a severe
magnificence,, altogether in accordance
with the position and large fortune of the
magistrate. Armed with a lamp, he ap-
proached six very handsome pictures, which
broke the monotony of the wainscoting-,
and admired them. He examined curious-
ly some rare bronzes, placed upon the chim-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

59

ney-piece, and a console. He gave the
bookcase the glance of a connoisseur.

After which, taking an evening paper
from the table, he approached the hearth,
and plunged into a vast arm-chair.

He had not read the third part of the
leading article, — which, like all the leading
articles of the time, interested itself exclu”
sively with the Roman question, — when,
letting the paper drop from his hands, he
became absorbed in meditation. The fixed
idea, stronger than his will, and more in-
teresting to him than politics, carried him
to Jonchere, where lay the murdered Widow
Lerouge. Like the child who builds up and
throws down again and again his house of
cards, he re-arranged and scattered alter-
nately his series of inductions and evi-
dence.

Certainly there was nothing doubtful or
questionable in the evidence. From A to
Z, he knew all. He knew what his own
impressions had been, on hearing Noel’s rev-
elations ; and Daburon, he saw, shared his
opinions. What difficulty remained ?

There is between the judge of inquiry
and the accused a supreme tribunal, — an
admirable institution, a powerful moder-
ator, — the jury.

The jury, thank heaven 1 does not content
itself with a moral conviction. The stron-
gest probabilities cannot draw from them
an affirmative verdict.

Placed upon a neutral ground, between
the prosecution and the defence, it de-
mands material and tangible proofs. Where
the magistrate would condemn twenty times
for one, in all security of conscience, the
jury acquit for lack of satisfying evi-
dence.

The deplorable execution of Lesurques
has certainly assured impunity to many crim-
inals ; but, it is necessary to say, it justifies
hesitation in receiving circumstantial evi-
dence in capital crimes.

In short, save where a criminal is taken
in the very act, or confesses his guilt, it is
not certain that the minister of justice can
secure a conviction. Sometimes the judge
of inquiry is as anxious as the accused
himself. Nearly all crimes are in some
particular point mysterious, perhaps impen-
etrable to justice and the police ; and the
duty of the advocate is, to discover this
weak point, and thereon establish his client’s
defence. By pointing out this doubt to the
jury, he insinuates in their minds a distrust
of the entire evidence; and frequently the
detection of a distorted induction, cleverly
exposed, can change the face of a prosecu-
tion, and make a strong case appear to the
jury a weak one. This uncertainty ex- 1

plains the character of passion which is so
often perceptible in criminal trials.

And, in proportion to the march of civili-
zation, juries in important trials will become
more timid and hesitating. The weight of
responsibility oppresses the man of conscien-
tious scruple. Already numbers recoil from
the idea of capital punishment ; and, when-
ever a jury can find a peg to hang a doubt
on, they will wash their hands of the re-
sponsibility of condemnation. We have
seen numbers of persons signing appeals for
mercy to a condemned malefactor, con-
demned for what crime? Parracide ! Every
juror, from the moment he is sworn, weighs
infinitely less the evidence he has come to
listen to than the risk he runs of incurring
the pangs of remorse. Rather than risk
the condemnation of one innocent man, he
will allow twenty scoundrels to go unpun-
ished.

The accusation must, then, come before
the jury, armed at all points, with both
hands full of proofs. A task often tedious
to the judge of inquiry, and bristling with
difficulties, is the arrangement and con-
densation of this evidence, particularly
when the accused is a miscreant of strength
and coolness, certain of having left no
traces of his guilt. Then, from the depths
of his dungeon he defies the assault of
justice, and laughs at the judge of inquiry.
It is a terrible struggle, enough to make
one tremble at the responsibility of the
magistrate, when he remembers, that, after
all, this man imprisoned, without consola-
tion or advice, may be innocent. How hard
is it, then, for the judge to resist his moral
convictions !

Even when presumptive evidence points
clearly to the criminal, and common sense
recognizes him, Justice is at times com-
pelled to acknowledge her defeat, for lack
of what the jury consider sufficient proof of
guilt.

Thus, unhappily, many crimes escape pun-
ishment. An old advocate-general one day
confessed that he knew as many as three
assassins, living rich, happy, and re-
spected, who, unless from sortie improbable
accidents, would end by dying in there
beds, surrounded by their families, being
followed to the grave with lamentations,
and praised for there virtues in there epi-
taphs.

At the idea that a murderer should escape
the penalty of his crime, steal himself away
from the very court of assize, Pere Ta-
baret’s blood fairly boiled in his veins,
as at the recollection of a cruel personal in-
jury.

I Such a monstrous event, in his opinion,

60

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

could only proceed from the incapacity of
the magistrates charged with the prosecu-
tion, the maladdress of the police, or the
stupidity of the judge of inquiry.

“ It is not I,” he muttered, with the satis-
fied vanity of success, “ who ever let my
prey escape. No crime can be committed,
of which the author cannot be found, unless
he happens to be a madman; in which
event, his escape is reasonable. I would
pass my life in pursuit of a criminal, before
avowing myself vanquished, as this Gevrol
has done so many times.”'

This time again, Pere Tabaret, assisted
by chance, had succeeded, he repeated to
himself; but what proofs of innocence would
the defence present to this accursed jury, —
this jury, so difficult to convince, so formal
and so cowardly? Who could imagine
what means might not be found by a
strong man, perfectly on his guard, cov-
ered by his position, and without doubt
by cunning precautions? What trap had
he prepared V To what new and infallible
stratagem had he had recourse ?

The amateur detective 'exhausted him-
self in subtle but impracticable combina-
tions, always stopped by this fatal jury, so
obnoxious to the chevaliers of the Rue
Jerusalem.

He was so deeply absorbed in his thoughts
that he did not hear the door open, and con-
tinued his reflections unconscious of the
judge’s presence.

Daburon’s voice aroused him from his
reverie.

“You will excuse me, M. Tabaret, for
having left you so long alone.”

The old fellow rose and made a respect-
ful salutation at an angle of forty-five de-
grees.

“ By my faith, monsieur,” replied he, “ I
have not had the leisure to perceive my sol-
itude.”

Daburon crossed the room, and seated
himself, facing his agent before a small ta-
ble encumbered with papers and documents
relating to the crime. He appeared very
much fatigued.

“ I have reflected a good deal,” he com-
menced, “ on all this affair — ”

“ And I,” interrupted Pere Tabaret, “ was
just asking myself, monsieur, what was
likely to be the attitude assumed by the
viscount at the moment of his arrest.
Nothing is more important, according to my
theory, than his manner of conducting
himself then. Will he attempt to intimi-
date the agents ? Will he threaten them
with expulsion from the house? These
are generally the tactics of titled criminals.
My opinion, however, is, that he will re-

main perfectly cool. This conclusion is
logical. It is the character of the perpe-
trator of the crime to treat the ministers
of justice with a superb assurance. He
will declare himself the victim of a misun-
derstanding, and insist upon an immediate
interview with the judge of inquiry. Once
that is accorded to him, he will finish by
explaining every thing very quickly.”

The old fellow spoke of matters of spec-
ulation in such a tone of assurance that
Daburon was unable to repress a smiie.

“ We have not got as far as that yet,’r
said he.

“ But we shall, in some hours,” replied
Tabaret quickly. “ I presume you will or-
der the criminal’s arrest at daybreak.”

The judge trembled, as the patient who
sees the surgeon on entering deposit his
case of instruments upon the table.

The moment for action had come. He
felt now what a distance lies between a
mental decision and the physical action re-
sulting therefrom.

“ You are prompt, M. Tabaret,” said he ;
“you recognize no obstacles.”

“ None, having ascertained the criminal.
Who else can have committed this assassi-
nation ? Who but he had an interest in
silencing the Widow Lerouge, in suppress-
ing her testimony, in destroying her pa-
pers ? Poor Noel 1 who is as dull as hones-
ty, has been forestalled by this wretch, who
stops at nothing. Noel has instituted pro-
ceedings to recover his title and estates.
Should the guilt of the assassin fail to be
established, he will remain de Commarin
more than ever ; and my young advocate
will be Noel Gerdy to the grave.”

“Yes, but — ”

The amateur fixed upon the judge a look
of astonishment.

“ You see, then, some difficulties, mon-
sieur ? ” he demanded.

“ Without doubt ! ” replied Daburon.

“ This is a matter demanding the utmost
circumspection. In cases like the present,
we must not strike until the blow is sure ;
and we have but presumptions. We must
not deceive ourselves. Justice, unhappily,
cannot repair her errors. Her hand once
placed upon a man, even if unjustly, leaves
an imprint of dishonor that can never be
effaced. She may perceive her error, and
proclaim it aloud; but in vain. Public
opinion, — absurd, idiotic opinion, — par-
dons not the man guilty of the crime of be-
ing suspected.”

It was with a sinking heart the old fel-
low heard these remarks. He would not
be the man to be with-held by such mean
considerations.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

61

“ Our suspicions are well grounded,”
continued the judge. “But, should they
lead us into error, our precipitation would
be a terrible misfortune for this young
man, to say nothing of the effect it would
have in abridging the authority and digni-
ty of Justice, of weakening the respect
which constitutes her power. Such a mis-
take would call for discussion, provoke ex-
amination, and awaken distrust, at an
epoch in our history when all minds are
but too much disposed to defy the consti-
tuted authorities.”

He leaned upon the table, and appeared
to reflect profoundly.

“ No chance,” thought Pere Tabaret.
“ I have to do with a trembler. When he
should act, he makes speeches ; instead of
signing mandates, he propounds theories.
He is stunned by my discovery, and is not
equal to the situation. Instead of being
delighted by my appearance with the news
of our success, he would have given a
louis, I dare say, to have been left to/
slumber undisturbed in thick ignorance.
Ah ! he would very willingly have the
little fishes in his net ; but the big ones
frighten him : the big fish are dangerous ;
and he lets them swim away.”

“Perhaps,” said Daburon in a loud
tone, “ it will suffice to issue a mandate of
inquiry, and another of requisition for the
appearance of the accused.”

“ Then all is. lost 1 ” cried Pere Tabaret.

“ And why, if you please ? ”

“ Monsieur, we are opposed by a crimi-
nal of marked ability. The crime has
been executed with the most subtle pre-
meditation. A most providential accident
alone, almost a miracle, has placed us upon
the track of discovery. If we give him
time to breathe, he will escape.”

The only answer was an inclination of
the head ; which Daburon might have
intended for a sign of assent.

“ It is evident,” continued the old fel-
low, “ that our adversary has foreseen
every thing, absolutely every thing, except
the possibility of suspicion attaching to
one in his high position. Oh ! his precau-
tions are all taken. If you are satisfied
with demanding his appearance, he is
saved. He will enter your cabinet of in-
quiry as tranquilly as your clerk, as uncon-
cerned as if he came to arrange the pre-
liminaries of a duel. He will present you
with a magnificent alibi, an alibi that can-
not be gainsayed. He will show you that
he passed the evening and the night of
Tuesday with personages of the highest
rank. He has dined with the Count de
Machin, gamed with the Marquis of so

and so, and supped with the duke of
what’s his name. The baroness of this
and the vicountess of that have not lost
sight of him for a minute. In short, his
little machine will be so cleverly ’con-
structed, so nicely arranged, all its little
wheels will play so well, that there will be
nothing left for you but to open the door
and usher him out with the most humble
apologies. The only means of securing
conviction is to surprise the miscreant by
a rapidity against which it is impossible
he can be on guard. Fall upon him like a
thunderclap, arrest him as he awakes, drag
him hither while yet pale with astonish-
ment, and interrogate at once.”

Pere Tabaret stopped short, frightened
at the idea that he had been wanting in
respect; but Daburon showed no sign of
being offended.

“ Proceed,” said he, in a tone of encour-
agement, “ proceed.”

)✓*“ Then,” continued the old fellow, “ I am
lb*judge of inquiry. I cause my man to be
arrested ; and, twenty minutes later, he is
standing before me. I do not amuse my-
self by putting questions to him, more or
less subtle. No, I go right to the mark.
I overwhelm him at once by the weight of
my certainty, prove to him so clearly that
I know every thing, that he must surrender,
seeing no chance of escape. I should say
to him, ‘ My good man, you bring me an
alibi ; it is very well : but we are acquainted
with this system of defence. It will not do
with me. Of course I understand you have
been elsewhere at the hour of the crime ;
an hundred persons have never lost sight
of you : it is all admitted. In the mean
time, here is what you have done. At
twenty minutes after eight, you slipped
away adroitly ; at thirty-five minutes past
eight, you took the train at Rue St. Lazare ;
at nine o’clock, you descended at the station
at Rueil, and took the road to Jonchere ; at
a quarter past nine, you knocked at the win-
dow-shutter of the Widow Lerouge’s cot-
tage. You were admitted. You asked for
something to eat, and, above all, something to
drink. At twenty minutes past nine, you
planted the end of a foil, well-sharpened, be-
tween her shoulders. You killed her ! You
then overturned every thing i n the house, and
burned certain papers of importance ; after
which, you tied in a napkin all the valua-
bles you could find, and carried them off, to
lead the police to believe the murder was
the work of a robber. You locked the
door, and threw away the key.

“ ‘ Arrived at the Seine, you threw the
bundle into the water, and then regained
the railway station on foot ; and, at eleven

62

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

o’clock, you re- appeared in the company,
where your absence was unnoticed. Your
game was well played ; but you omitted to
provide against two adversaries, an agent
of po.lice, not easily deceived, named Tirau-
claire, and another still more capable,
named chance.

“ ‘ Between the two, they have made you
lose the game. Moreover, you were wrong
to wear fine boots, and to keep on your pearl
gray gloves, besides embarrassing yourself
with a silk hat and an umbrella. Now
confess your guilt, and save the trouble of
a trial ; and I will give you permission to
smoke in your dungeon some of those tra-
bucos you are so fond of, and which you
smoke always with an amber mouthpiece.’ ”

During this speech, delivered with extra-
ordinary volubility, Pere Tabaret had
gained a couple of inches in height, so
great was his enthusiasm. He looked at
the magistrate, as if requesting a smile of
approval.

“ Yes,” continued he, after taking
breath, “ I would say this, and nothing else ;
and, unless this man is a hundred times
stronger than I suppose him to be, unless
he is made of bronze, of marble, or of steel,
he would fall at my feet and avow his
guilt.”

“ And then if he were of bronze,” said
Daburon, “ and did not fall at your feet,
what would you do next ? ”

The question evidently embarrassed the
old fellow.

“ Pshaw 1 ” stammered he ; “I don’t
know ; I should see. I would search. But
he would confess.”

After a prolonged silence, Daburon took
a pen, and wrote in haste, —

“ I surrender,” said he. “ M. Albert de
Commarin shall be arrested. It is decided ;
but the formalities and inquiries will occu-
py some time, which I wish to use by first
interrogating the Count de Commarin, the
young man’s father, and this young advo-
cate, your friend M. Noel Gerdy, also, in
examination of the letters of which you
speak ; they are indispensable to me.”

At the name of Gerdy, Pere Tabaret’s
face assumed a most comical expression of
uneasiness.

“ Confound it,” cried he, “ the very
thing I have most dreaded.”

What ? ” demanded Daburon.

“ The necessity for the examination of
those letters. Noel will discover my inter-
ference. He will despise me : he will fly
from me, when he knows that Tabaret and
Tirauclaire sleeps in the same nightcap.
Before eight days, my oldest friends will
refuse to take my hand, as if it were not an

honor to serve justice. I shall be obliged
to change my residence, and assume a
false name.”

He almost wept, so great was his annoy-
ance. Daburon was touched.

“ Reassure yourself, my dear Tabaret,”
said he. “ I will manage that your adopted
son, your Benjamin, shall know nothing.
I shall lead him to believe I have reached
him by means of the widow’s papers.”

The old fellow seized the judge’s hand
in a transport of gratitude, and carried it
to his lips.

“ Oh ! thanks, monsieur, a thousand
thanks 1 I beg to be permitted to witness
the arrest ; and I shall be glad to assist at
the examination.”

“ I expected you would ask it, M. Taba-
ret,” answered the judge.

The lamps paled in the gray dawn of
the morning ; the rumbling of vehicles was
heard in the distance : Paris was awaking.

“ I have no time to lose,” continued
Daburon, “ if I would have all my measures
well taken. I must at once see the pro-
curer imperial, awake him, if necessary. I
will go from his house directly to the pal-
ace of justice. I shall be in my cabinet
before eight o’clock; and I desire, M.
Tabaret, you will there await my orders.”

The magistrate’s servant appeared.

“ A note, monsieur,” said he, “ brought
by a gendarme from Bougival. He waits
an answer.”

“ Very well,” replied Daburon. “ Ask
the man to have some refreshment ; at
least offer him a glass of wine.”

He opened the envelope.

“ Ah ! ” he cried, “ a letter from Gevrol ; ”
and he read, —

“ ‘ To the Judge of Inquiry, —

“ ‘ I have the honor to inform you, that I
am on the track of the man of the ear-rino-s.
I heard of him at a wine shop, which he
entered on Sunday morning, before going
to the Widow Lerouge’s cottage. He
drank, and paid for two litres of wine;
then, suddenly striking his forehead, he
cried, “ Old stupid ! to forget that to-mor-
row is the boat’s fete day 1 ” and demanded
another litre of wine. I consulted the
almanac ; it was the fete of St. Martin,,
which I therefore take to be the name of
the boat. I have also learned that she was
laden with grtiin. I write to the prefecture
at the same time as I write to you, that
inquiries may be made at Paris and Rouen.
He must be found at one of these places.

“ ‘ I am in waiting, monsieur, &c. ’ ”

“ Poor Gevrol ! ” cried Pere Tabaret,
bursting with laughter. “He sharpens
his sabre, and the battle is over. Are you

THE WIDOW LEROUGE,

63

not going to put a stop to his researches,
monsieur? ”

“ No ; certainly not,” answered Daburon ;
“ to neglect the slightest clew might lead
to error. Who can tell what light we may
receive from this old mariner with the
rings in his ears ? ”

CHAPTER VIH.

On the same day that the crime of Jon-
chere was discovered, and precisely at the
hour when Pere Tabaret made his memora-
ble examination in the victim’s chamber,
the Viscount Albert de Commarin entered
a carriage, and proceeded to the Gate du
Nord, to meet his father.

The young man was very pale, his
features pinched, his eyes dull, his lips
blanched, his whole appearance denoting
either overwhelming fatigue or unusual
sorrow.

All the servants had observed, that, dur-
ing the past five days, their young master was
not in his ordinary condition : he spoke
with effort, eat almost nothing, and forbade
the admission of visitors.

His valet remarked that this singular al-
teration dated from the visit, on Sunday
morning, of a certain M. Noel Gerdy, advo-
cate, who had been closeted with him for
three hours in the library.

The viscount, gay as a lark until the
arrival of this person, had, from the moment
of his departure, the appearance of a man
at the point of death, or filled with remorse
for the commission of a terrible crime.

At the moment of setting forth to meet
his father, the viscount appeared to suffer
so acutely that Lubin, his valet, entreated
him not to expose himself to the cold ; it
would be more prudent to retire to his room,
and call in the doctor.

But the Count de Commarin, his son
knew, was exacting on the score of filial
duty, and would overlook the worst of
youthful indiscretions sooner than what he
termed a want of reverence. He had an-
nounced his intended arrival by telegraph,
twenty-four hours in advance; therefore
the house was expected to be in perfect
readiness to receive him : and the absence
of Albert at the railway station would have
been resented as a flagrant omission of
duty.

The viscount had been but five minutes
in the waiting room, when the bell an-
nounced the arrival of the train. Soon the
doors leading to the platform were opened,
and the depot became filled with travellers.

The throng beginning to thin a little, the
count appeared, followed by a servant, who
carried a travelling pelisse lined with ex-
pensive fur.

The Count de Commarin looked a good
ten years less than his age. His beard
and hair, yet abundant, were scarcely
grey. He was tall and muscular, held
himself upright, and carried his head
high, — all this without any of the ungra-
cious British manner, so much affected by
our young men of the present day. His
appearance was noble, his movements easy.
His hands were strong and handsome, —
the hands of a man whose ancestors have
been for centuries familiar with swordhilts.
His regular features presented a study to
the physiognomist, all expressing easy, care-
less good nature, even to the handsome, smil-
ing mouth ; except his eyes, in whose clear
depths flashed the fiercest, most arrogant
pride. This contrast revealed the secret
of his character. Imbued quite as deeply
with aristocratic prejudice as the Marquise
d’ Arlanges, he had progressed with his
century, or at least appeared to have done
so. As fully as the marquise, he held in
contempt all who were not noble ; but his
disdain expressed itself in different fashion.
The marquise proclaimed her contempt
loudly and coarsely ; the count dissimu-
lated, beneath an excess of politeness hu-
miliating to its object, a feeling of disgust
equally excessive. The marquise will-
ingly admitted her tradespeople to familiar
conversation. The count, one day when
his architect let fall his umbrella, picked it
up and returned it to him. The marquise
had lived with her eyes bandaged, her ears
closed ; the count had kept eyes and ears
open and had seen and heard a good deal.
She was stupid, arid without the protection
of common sense. He was witty and sensi-
ble, and possessed enlarged views of life and
politics. She dreamed of the return of the
absurd traditions of a former age, and the
restoration of effete monarchies, imagining
that the years could be turned back like
the hands of a clock. He hoped for things
within the power of events to bring forth.
For example, he was sincerely persuaded
the nobles of France would yet recover
slowly and silently, but surely, all their
lost power, with its prestige and influence.

But, in the end, they belonged to the
same order. They were both aristocrats.
The count was a flattered portrait of his
class ; the marquise its caricature.

It should be added, that M. de Com-
marin knew how to divest himself of
his crushing urbanity in the company of
his equals. There he recovered his true

64

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

character, — haughty, self-sufficient, and
intractable, enduring contradiction pretty
much as a wild horse the application of the
spur.

In his own house, he was a despot.

Perceiving his father, Albert advanced,
and embraced him with an air equally
noble and ceremonious, and, in less than a
minute, had expressed in well-chosen
phrase all the news that had transpired
during his absence, and the compliments
of the journey.

Then only M. de Commarin perceived
the so visible alteration in his son’s face.

“ You are not well, viscount ? ” asked

he.

“ Oh, yes, monsieur I ” answered Albert,
dryly.

The count gave an “ Ah 1 ” accompanied
by a certain movement of the head — a
habitual trick with him, expressing perfect
incredulity ; then, turning to his servant, he
gave him some orders briefly.

“ Now,” resumed he, “ let us go quickly
to the house. I am in haste to feel at home ;
and I am hungry, having had nothing
to-day but some detestable bouillon, at I
know not what way station.”

M. de Commarin arrived in Paris in very
ill-humor : his journey into Austria had not
brought the results lie hoped for.

To crown his dissatisfaction, he had
rested, on his homeward way, at the house
of an old friend, with whom he had so vio-
lent a discussion that they parted without
shaking hands.

The count was hardly seated in his car-
riage, which started at a gallop, before he
entered upon the subject of this disagree-
ment.

“ I have quarrelled with the Duke de
Sairmeuse,” said he.

“ That seems to me to happen when-
ever you meet,” answered Albert, without
intending any raillery.

“ True,” said the count ; “ but this is
serious. I passed four days at his country-
seat, in a state* of inconceivable exaspera-
tion. He has been guilty of an act which
lowers him in my estimation beyond re-
covery ! Sairmeuse has sold his estate of
Gondresy, — one of the finest in the north
of France. He cut down the timber, and
put up to auction the old chateau, — a
princely dwelling, now to be converted into
a sugar refinery ; all this for the purpose,
as he says, of raising money to meet some
legal obligations, — debts or settlements,
or something of that kind ! ”

“ And was that the cause of your rup-
ture ? ” inquired Albert, without much sur-
prise.

“ Certainly it was ? Do you not think
it a sufficient one? ”

“ But, monsieur, you know the duke has
a large family, and is far from rich.”

“ What matters that ? A noble of France
who sells his land commits an unworthy
act. He is guilty of treason against his
order ! ”

“ O monsieur I ” said Albert, depreca-
tingly.

“ I said treason 1 ” continued the count.
“ I maintain the position. Remember well,
viscount, the power has been, and always
will be, on the side of wealth, — the strong-
est right with those who hold the soil.
The men of ’93 well understood this prin-
ciple, and acted upon it. By impoverish-
ing the nobility, they destroyed their pres-
tige more effectually than by abolishing
their titles. A prince dismounted, and
without retinue, — that is, without means
to retain them, — is a ridiculous figure 1
The minister of July, who said ,to the peo-
ple, * Make yourselves rich,’ was not a fool.
He gave them the magic formula for power.
But they have not the sense to understand
it. They want to go too fast. They launch
into speculations, and become rich, it is
true ; but in what ? Stocks, bonds, paper, —
rags, in short. It is smoke they are lock-
ing in their coffers. They prefer to invest
in merchandise, which pays eight or ten per
cent, to investing in vines or corn which
will return but three. The peasant is not
so foolish. From the moment he owns a
piece of ground the size of a handkerchief,
lie wants to make it as large as a tablecloth.
He is slow as the oxen lie ploughs with,
but as patient, as tenacious, and as obsti-
nate. He goes directly to his object, press-
ing firmly against the yoke ; and nothing
can stop or turn him aside. He knows
that stocks may rise or fall, fortunes be won
or lost on ’change ; but the land always re-
mains, — the real standard of wealth. To
become landholders, the peasant starves
himself, wears sabots in winter ; and the im-
beciles who laugh at him will be astonished
by and by when he makes his ’93, and the
peasant becomes a baron in power if not
in name.”

“ I do not understand the application,’
said the viscount.

“ You do not understand ? Why, what
the peasant is doing is what the nobles
ought to have done ! Ruined, their duty
was to reconstruct their fortunes. Com-
merce is interdicted to us ; be it so : agri-
culture remains. Instead of grumbling
uselessly during the half-century, instead
of running themselves into debt, in the
ridiculous attempt to support an appearance

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

65

of grandeur, they ought to have retreated
to their provinees, shut themselves up in
their chateaux ; there worked, economized,
denied themselves, as the peasant is doing,
purchased the land piece by piece. Had
they taken this course, they would to-day
possess France. Their wealth would be
enormous ; for the value of land rises year
after year. I have, without effort, doubled
my fortune in thirty years. Blauville,
which cost my father a hundred «rowns in
1817, is worth to-day more than a million :
so that, when I hear the nobles complain,
I shrug the shoulder. Who but they are
to blame? They impoverish themselves
from year to year. They sell their land
to the peasants. Soon they will be reduced
to beggary, and their some time great names
be found only on their escutcheons. What
consoles me is, that the peasant, having
become the proprietor of our domains, will
then be all-powerful, and will yoke to his
chariot wheels these traders in scrip and
stocks, whom he hates as much as I ex-
ecrate them myself.”

^The carriage at this moment stopped in
Hhfescourt of the Hotel Commarin, after hav-
ing described that perfect circle, the glory
of coachmen who preserve the old tradit ions.

The count alighted from the carriage,
leaning upon his son’s arm, and ascended
the steps of the grand entrance.

In the immense vestibule, nearly all the
servants, dressed in rich liveries, stood in a
line.

The count gave them a glance, in pass-
ing, as an officer might his soldiers on
parade, and proceeded to his apartments
upon the second floor, above the reception
rooms.

Never was there a better regulated house-
hold than that of the Hotel de Commarin, —
a considerable establishment, too ; for the
count’s fortune enabled him to sustain a
retinue greater than that of a German
prince. He possessed in a high degree the
art, more rare than is generally supposed,
of commanding an army of servants.

According to Riviral, a man’s manner of
o-iving an order to a lackey establishes liis
rank better than a hundred genealogies on
parchment.

The number of his domestics gave the
count neither inconvenience ner embarrass-
ment. They were necessary to him. Al-
though he was exacting, never permitting
the expression, “ I did not understand,”
he was rarely heard to administer a reproof.

So perfect was the organization of this
household, that its functions were per-
formed like those of a machine, — without
noise, variation, or effort.

Thus, when the count returned from his
journey, the sleeping hotel was awakened
as if by the spell of an enchanter. Each
servant was at his post ; and the occupa-
tions, interrupted during the past six weeks,
resumed without confusion. As the count
was known to have passed the day on the
road, the dinner was served in advance of
the usual hour. All the establishment,
even to the lowest scullion, represented the
spirit of the first article of the rules of the
house, “ Servants are not to execute orders,
but anticipate them.”

M. de Commarin had hardly removed
the traces of his journey, and changed his
dress, when his Maitre d’ Hotel an-
nounced,—

“ M. le Count is served.”

He descended at once; and father and
son met upon the threshold of the dining-
room.

This was a large apartment, very high
in the ceiling, as were all the rooms of the
first floor, and was at once 'magnificent
and simple in its furniture and appoint-
ments.

One only of its four sideboards would
have encumbered a dining-room of the
Rue Malescherhes.

A collector of curiosities would have
found much to occupy his attention on
those four sideboards, loaded as they were
with antique gold and silver plate, rare
enamels, marvellous china, and porcelain
that might make a king of Saxony turn
green with jealousy.

The table service, resplendent in silver
and cut glass, which occupied the middle
of the room, was in keeping with this luxury.

The count was not only a great eater,
but was vain of his enormous appetite, —
the possession of which would have been
to a poor devil an awful calamity. He was
fond of recalling the names of great men,
noted for their capacity of stomach.
Charles the fifth devoured mountains of
viands. Louis XIV. swallowed at each
repast as much as six ordinary men. He
argued, pleasantly, that we may judge of
men’s qualities by their digestive capacities.
He compared them to lamps, whose power
of giving light is in proportion to the oil
they consume.

The first half hour of dinner passed in
silence. M. de Commarin eat conscien-
tiously, either not perceiving or not caring
to notice that his son eat nothing, but
merely sat at the table as if to countenance
him. But with the dessert the old noble-
man’s ill-humor and volubility returned,
apparently increased by the Burgundy,
which he drank unsparingly.

66

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

He was partial, moreover, to after dinner
argument, professing a theory that spirited
discussion is a perfect digestive. A letter
which had been delivered to him on his
arrival, and which he had found time to
glance over, gave him at once a subject and
a point of departure.

“ I arrived here at one o’clock,” said he ;
“ and I have already received a homily
from Broisfresnay.”

“ Me writes often,” observed Albert.

“ Too much ; he consumes himself in
ink. More ridiculous projects, vain hopes,
veritable childishness ! and he mentions at
least a dozen names of men high in power
as associates. By my word of honor, men
seem to have lost their senses ! They talk
of lifting the world, only they want the lever
and the point on which to rest it. It makes
me die with laughter 1 ”

For ten minutes the count continued to
discharge a volley of epigrams and sar-
casms against his best friends, without seem-
ing to see that a great many of the foibles
he ridiculed were his own as much as
theirs.

“ If,” continued he more seriously, — “ if
they showed any confidence in themselves,
they might be entitled to respect ; but they
have not even the virtue of courage. They
count upon others to do for them what they
ought to do for themselves.' They are in
continual quest of some one better mounted,
who will consent to take them on his crup-
per. In short, their proceedings are a series
of confessions of helplessness, of premature
declarations of failure.”

Coffee was served ; and the count made
a sign.

The servants left the room.

“ No,” said the count, “ I see but one
hope for the French aristocracy, but one
plank of salvation, one good little law,
establishing the right of primogeniture.”

“ You will never obtain it, monsieur.”

“ You would oppose such a measure,
viscount.”

Albert knew by experience what dan-
gerous ground his father was approaching,
and was silent.

“ Let us put it, then, that I dream of the
impossible ! ” resumed the count. “ Let the
nobles do their duty. When the younger
sons and daughters of great houses devote
themselves to establish their families, by
giving up the entire patrimony to its first-
born tor flVe generations, contenting them-
selves each one with a hundred louis a
year, then only can great fortunes be re-
constructed, and families, instead of being
divided by a variety of interests, become
united by a common aspiration, — have

a political influence, a position in the
State.”

“Unfortunately,” objected the viscount,
“ the time is not favorable to such devoted-
ness.”

“I know it, monsieur,” replied the count
quickly; “and in my own house I have
proved it. I have conjured you to renounce
the espousal of the grand-daughter of this
old fool, the Marquise d’ Arlanges. To
what purpose ? ”

“ My father — ” Albert was beginning.

“ It is well,” interrupted the count.
“ You will take your own course ; but
remember my prediction : you will give the
mortal blow to our house ; you will be one
of the largest proprietors in France, but
have half a dozen children ; and they will
be hardly rich. Live to be an old man, and
you will see your grandchildren in poverty 1 ”

“ You put all at the worst, father.”

“ Without doubt : it is the only means
of pointing out the danger, and averting
the evil. You talk of your life’s happiness.
A truly noble man thinks of his name and
family before all, even his life’s happiness.
Mademoiselle d’ Arlanges is very pretty,
and very attractive ; but she has not a sou..
It is your duty to marry an heiress.”

“ Whom I shall not love ? ”

“ The same old song. Pshaw ! the lady
I wish you to marry will bring you four
millions in her apron, — a larger dowry
than the kings of to-da^ can give their
daughters.”

The discussion upon this subject would
have been interminable, had Albert taken
an active share in it; but his mind was
leagues away : and he answered from time
to time only, and then in monosyllables.
This absence of opposition was more irrita-
ting to the count than the most obstinate
contradiction. He directed his utmost
efforts to pique his son ; that was his next
tactique.

Meanwhile, he was vainly prodigal of
words, and unsparing in provoking and
unpleasant allusions. At length, from
being irritated, he became furious ; and,
on receiving a laconic response, he burst
forth, —

“ Parbleu ! the son of my Maitre d’
Hotel argues no worse than you. What
blood have you in your veins ? You are
more like a son of the people than a scion
of the de Commarins 1 ”

There are certain conditions of mind in
which the least conversation jars upon the
nerves. During the last half hour, Albeit
had suffered an intolerable punishment.
The patience with which he had armed
himself at last escaped him.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

67

“ Well, monsieur,” he answered, “ if I
resemble a son of the people, there are
perhaps good reasons for it.”

The glance accompanying the speech was
so expressive that the count experienced a
sudden shock. All the animation departed
from his manner ; and, in a hesitating voice,
he demanded, —

“ What do you say, viscount ? ”

Albert no sooner uttered the sentence
than he regretted his precipitation ; but he
had gone too far to retreat.

“Monsieur,” he said with a peculiar
calmness, “ I have to confer with you on
important matters. My honor, yours, the
honor of our house, are involved. I in-
tended postponing the conversation till to-
morrow, not desiring to trouble you on the
evening of your return ; but you have in-
troduced the topic, and we must pro-
ceed.”

The count listened with ill-concealed
anxiety. He divined the misfortune that
had occurred, and was terrified at himself
for having divined it.

“ Believe me, monsieur,” continued Al-
bert, “ whatever may have been your acts,
my voice will never be raised to reproach
you. Your constant goodness — ”

M. de Commarin held up his hand.

“ A truce to preambles ; the facts without
phrases,” said he, sternly.

Albert was slow to answer : he hesitated
where to commence.

“ Monsieur,” said he at length, “ during
your absence, I have read all your correspon-
dence with Madame Gerdy, — all ! ” empha-
sizing the last word, already so significant.

The count started up, as if stung by a
serpent, with such violence that his chair
rolled back several paces.

“ Not a word 1 ” cried he in a terrible
voice. “ I forbid you to speak.”

He was ashamed of his violence, evi-
dently ; for he replaced his chair with an
affectation of calmness.

“ Who will hereafter refuse to believe in
presentiments?” he resumed in a tone
which he strove to render light and rally-
ing. “ An hour ago, on seeing your pale
face at the railway station, I felt that you
had learned something, — much or little, —
of this history. I was sure of it.”

With one accord, father and son avoided
letting their* eyes meet, lest they might en-
counter glances too eloquent to bear at so
painful a moment.

“ You said, monsieur,” said the count,
“ honor demands this conference ; it is im-
portant, then, to avoid delay. Will you
follow me to my room ? ”

He rang the bell. A valet appeared.

“ Neither M. the viscount nor I am at home
to any one, no matter whom. We are not
to be interrupted.”

CHAPTER IX.

This revelation irritated, much more than
surprised, the Count de Commarin.

Indeed, for twenty years, he had been
expecting to see the truth brought to light.
He knew that there could be no secret so
carefully guarded that it might not by some
chance escape ; and his had been known
to four people, three of whom were still
living.

He had not forgotten that he had been
imprudent enough to trust this secret to
paper, knowing all the while that it ought
never to have been written.

How could he, a prudent diplomat, a
statesman, used to precaution, have put it
in writing ? How, after writing, could he
have allowed this fatal correspondence to
remain in existence? Why had he not
destroyed, at whatever cos,t, these over-
whelming proofs, which sooner or later
would be brought against him ? Such im-
prudence could only have been caused by
an absurd passion, blind, insensible, im-
provident even to madness.

It is characteristic of love to have such
belief in its continuance that it is scarcely
satisfied with the prospect of eternity.
Absorbed completely in the present, it
takes no thought for the future.

Besides, what man ever dreams of put-
ting himself on his guard against the
woman he loves ? The enamored Samson
is ever ready to submit his hair to the scis-
sors of his Delila.

So long as he was Valerie’s lover, the
count never thought of asking the return
of his letters from his beloved accomplice.
If the idea had occurred to him, he would
have repelled it as an insult to the charac-
ter of his angel.

What reason could he have had to sus-
pect her discretion? None. He would
have been much more likely to have sup-
posed her interested in removing every
trace, even the slightest, of the occurrences
which had taken place. Was it not her
son who had received the benefits of the
deed, — who had usurped another’s name
and fortune ?

When, eight years after, thinking him-
self deceived, the count had broken off* the
connection which had given him so much
happiness, he thought of obtaining posses-

68

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

sion of this unhappy correspondence. But
he knew no way. A thousand reasons pre-
vented his moving in the matter.

The principal one of these reasons was,
that he had resolved never again to meet
this woman, once so dearly loved. He did
not feel sufficiently sure either of his anger
or of his firmness. Could he, without
yielding, resist* the tearful pleading of
those eyes, which had so long held com-
plete sway over his soul ?

To look again upon this mistress of his
youth would, he feared, result in his forgiv-
ing her ; and he had been too cruelly
wounded in his pride and in his affection
to admit the idea of a reconciliation.

On the other hand, to obtain the letters
through a third party was entirely out of
the question. He abstained, then, from all
action, postponing it indefinitely.

“ I will go to her,” said he ; “ but not
until I have so torn her from my heart that
she will have become indifferent to me. I
will not gratify her with the sight of my
grief.”

So months and years passed on ; and
finally he began to say and believe that it
was too late. ,

The truth was, that there were memories
which it would have been imprudent to
awake. By an unjust mistrust, he might
provoke her to using the letters.

Can you better force a well-armed per-
son to use his arms than by demanding
their surrender ? After so long a silence,
to ask for the letters would be nearly the
same as declaring war. Besides, were they
still in existence ? who could tell ? what
more likely than that Madame Gerdy had
destroyed them, understanding that their
existence was dangerous and that their de-
struction alone could render her son’s usur-
pation safe?

M. de Commarin was not blind; but,
finding himself in an inextricable dif-
ficulty, he thought the wisest course was to
trust to chance : and so he left open for his
old age this door to a guest who was always
entering, — Unhappiness.

And for now more than twenty years,
he had never passed a day without cursing
his inexcusable folly.

Never had he been able to forget that
above his head hung a danger more terri-
ble than the sword of Damocles, suspended
by a thread, which the slightest accident
might break.

To-day this thread had broken.

Often, when considering the possibility
of such a catastrophe, he had asked him-
self how he should avert it ?

He had formed and rejected many plans :

he had deluded himself, like all men of
imagination, who, with a wealth of chimeri-
cal projects, find themselves at last sur-
prised while unprepared.

Albert stood respectfully, while his fa-
ther sat in his great armorial chair, just
beneath the large chart, where the genea-
logical tree of the illustrious family of
Rheteau de Commarin spread its luxuri-
ant branches.

The old gentleman permitted no one to
see the cruel apprehensions which oppressed
him. He Seemed neither irritated nor de-
jected ; but his eyes expressed a haughti-
ness more than usually disdainful, — a self-
reliance full of contempt, rendering him
imperturbable.

“ Now, viscount,” he began in a firm
voice, “explain yourself. I need- say noth-
ing to you of the pain of a father, obliged
to blush before his son ; you feel, and pity.
Let us spare each other, and try to be
calm. Tell me, how did you obtain your
knowledge of this correspondence ? ”

Albert had had time to recover himself,
and prepare for the present struggle, as he
had waited four days for this interview
with mortal impatience.

The difficulty he experienced in speak-
ing the first words had given place to a digni-
fied and proud demeanor. He expressed
himself clearly and forcibly, without losing
himself in those details which in grave
matters only retard progress.

“Monsieur,” he replied, “on Monday
morning, a young man appeared here, sta-
ting that he had business with me of the
utmost importance and secrecy. I received
him. He then revealed to me that I, alas !
am only your natural son, substituted,
through your affection, for the legitimate
child borne to you by Madame de Com-
marin.”

“ And you did not kick this man out of
doors ? ” exclaimed the count.

“ No, monsieur. I should have answered
him very sharply, of course ; but, present-
ing me with a package of letters, he begged
me to read them before replying;”

“ Ah ! ” cried M. de Commarin, “ you did
not throw them in the fire, — there was a
fire, I suppose? You held them in your
hands ; and they still exist. I would have
done very differently ! ”

“ Monsieur ! ” said Albert, reproachfully.

And, recalling the position Noel had
occupied^ before the mantel, and the man-
ner in which he stood, he added, —

“ Even if the thought had occurred to
me, it was impracticable. Besides, at the
first glance, I recognized your handwriting.

I then took the letters, and read-them.”

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

69

“ And then ? ”

“ And then, monsieur, I returned the
correspondence to the young man, and
asked for a delay of eight days; not to
think over it myself, — there was no need
of that, — but because I judged an inter-
view with you indispensable. Now, there-
fore, I beseech ) ou, tell me whether this
substitution ever took place.”

“ Certainly it did,” replied the count
violently, — “ certainly. You know that it
did ; for you have read what I wrote to
Madame Gerdy, your mother.”

Albert had foreseen, had expected this
reply ; but it crushed him.

This was one of those misfortunes, so
great, that you have to keep repeating it
to yourself before you can actually realize
it. This flinching lasted but an instant,
however.

“ Pardon me, monsieur,” he replied. “ I
believed it ; but I had not a formal assur-
ance of it. All the letters that I read
spoke distinctly of your purpose, detailing
your plan minutely ; but not one pointed to,
or in any way confirmed, the execution of
the project.”

The count gazed at his son with a look
of intense surprise. He recollected dis-
tinctly all the letters; and he could re-
member, that, in writing to Valerie, he had
over and over rejoiced at their success,
thanking her for having acted in accord-
ance with his wishes.

“ You did not finish, then, viscount,” he
said, “ you did not read all ? ”

“ Every line, monsieur, and with an at-
tention that you may well understand.
The last letter shown me simply announced
to Madame Gerdy the arrival of Claudine
Lerouge, the nurse who was charged with
accomplishing the exchange. I know noth-
ing beyond that.”

“ These proofs amount to nothing,” mut-
tered the count. “ A man may form a
plan, cherish it for a long time, and at the last
moment abandon it; it often happens so.”

He reproached himself for having an-
swered so hastily. Albert had had only
serious suspicions : he had changed them
to certainty. What a mistake !

« There can be no possible doubt,” he
said to himself; “Valerie has destroyed
the most conclusive letters, those which
appeared to her the most dangerous? those
I wrote after the exchange. Rut why has
she preserved these others, compromising
enough in themselves ? and why, after hav-
ing preserved them, has she let them out
of her possession ? ”

“ Perhaps she is dead 1 ” said M. de Com-
marin aloud. J

And at this thought of Valerie dead,
without his having again seen her, he
started painfully. His heart, after more
than twenty years of voluntary separation,
still suffered, so deeply rooted was this first
love of his youth. He had cursed her;
at this moment, he would have pardoned
her. She had deceived him, it is true ; but
did he not owe to her the only years of
happiness he had ever known ? Had she
not formed all the poetry of his youth?
Had he experienced, since leaving her, one
single hour of happiness ? In his present
frame of mind, his heart retained only
happy memories, like a vase which, once
filled with the precious perfumes, retains
the odor even after it is itself destroyed.

“ Poor girl ! ” he murmured.

He sighed deeply. Three or four times
his eye-lids twinkled, as if a tear had nearly
fallen. Albert watched him with anxious
curiosity. This was the first time since the
viscount had grown to man’s estate that he
had surprised in his father’s countenance
other emotion than ambition or pride, con-
quered or triumphant. But M. de Comma-
rin’s was not the character to yield long to
sentiment.

“You have not told me, viscount,” he
said, “ who sent you this unhappy mes-
sage ? ”

“ He came in person, monsieur, not wish-
ing, he told me, to bring a third party into
this sad affair. The young man was no
other than he whose place I have occupied,
— your legitimate son, Noel Gerdy him-
self.”

“ Yes,” said the count in a low tone,
“ Noel ; that is his name : I remember.”
And then, with evident hesitation, he
added, “ did he speak to you of his — of
your mother ? ”

“ Scarcely, monsieur. He only told me
that he had been brought up in ignorance
of the secret which he had accidentally
discovered, and which he revealed to me.”

M. de Commarin made no reply. There
was nothing more for him to learn. He
was reflecting. The decisive moment had
come ; and he saw but one way to escape.

“ Come, viscount,” he said, in a tone so
affectionate that Albert was astonished,
“ do not stand ; sit down here by me, and
let us discuss this matter. Let us unite our
efforts to shun, if possible, this great mis-
fortune. Confide in me, as a son should in
his father. Have you thought of what is to
be done ? have you formed any determina-
tion ? ”

“ It seems to me, monsieur, that hesita
tion is impossible.”

“ In what way ? *

70

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“My duty, father, to me is very plain.
Before your legitimate son, I ought to give
•vvay without a murmur, if not without re-
gret. Let him come. I am ready to yield
to him every thing that I have so long,
without a suspicion of the truth, kept from
1 him, — a father’s love, his fortune and his
name.”

The old gentleman, at this most praise-
worthy reply, could scarcely preserve the
calmness he had recommended to his son
in the earlier part of the interview. His
face grew purple ; and he struck the table
with his fist more furiously than he had ever
done in his life. He, usually so guarded,
so decorous on all occasions, uttered a vol-
ley of oaths that would not have done dis-
credit to an old cavalry officer.

“ And I tell you, sir, that this, your dream
of life, shall never take place. No; that it
sha’n’t. I promise you, whatever happens,
understand, that things must remain as
they are ; because it is my wish. You are
Viscount de Commarin ; and Viscount de
Commarin you shall remain, in spite of
yourself. You shall retain the title to your
death, or at least to mine ; for never, while
I live, shall your absurd idea be carried
out.”

“But, monsieur,” began Albert, timid-

ty-

“ You are very fond of interrupting me
while I am speaking, monsieur,” exclaimed
the count. “ Do I not know all your objec-
tions beforehand ? You are going to
tell me that it is a revolting injustice, a
wicked robbery. I confess it, and grieve
over it more than you possibly can. Do
you think that I now for the first time
repent of my youthful folly ? For twenty
years, monsieur, I have lamented my
true son ; for twenty years have I
cursed the wickedness of which he is the
victim. And yet I taught myself to keep
silence, to hide the sorrow and the remorse
which has covered my pillow with thorns.
In a single instant, your senseless yielding
would render my long-suffering of no avaif
No, I will never permit it ! ”

The count read a reply on his son’s lips :
he stopped him with a withering glance.

“ Do you think,” he continued, “ that I
have never wept over the thought of my
legitimate son passing his life struggling for
a competence ? Do you think that° I have
never felt a burning desire to repair the
wrong done him ? There have been times,
monsieur, when I would have given half of
my fortune simply to embrace that child of
a wife too tardily appreciated. The fear
of casting a shadow of suspicion upon your
birth prevented me. I have sacrificed my-

self to the great name I bear. I received
it from my ancestors without a stain. May
you hand it down to your children equally
spotless 1 Your first purpose is a worthy
one, — noble, chivalrous ; but you must for-
get it. Think of the scandal, if our
secret should be disclosed to the pub-
lic gaze. Can you not foresee the joy of
that herd of parvenues who surround us ?
I shudder at the thought of the odium, the
ridicule which will attach to our name.
Too many familes already have stains
upon their escutcheons ; I hope ours will
never be among the number.”

M. de Commarin had stopped several
minutes, without Albert’s daring to reply,
so much had he been accustomed since in-
fancy to respect the least wish of the terri-
ble old gentleman.

“ There is no possible way out of it,”
continued the count. “ Shall I to-morrow
discard you, and present this Noel as my
son, saying, ‘ Excuse me, but there has been
a slight mistake in identity : I didn’t know
my own son ? ’ And then the tribunals
will get hold of it. Now, if our name were
Benoit, Durand, or Bernard, it would make
no difference ; but, when one is called a
Commarin, even but for a single day, he
must retain it through life. Justice is not
the same in every case ; because all have
not the same duties. In our position, errors
are irreparable. Take courage, then, and
show yourself worthy of the name you
bear. The storm is upon you ; raise your
head to meet it.”

Albert’s impassibility contributed not a
little to increase M. de Commarin’s irrita-
tion. Firm in an unchangeable resolution,
the viscount listened like one fulfilling a
duty ; and his face reflected no emotion.
The count saw that he was not shaken.

“ What have you to reply ? ” he asked.

“ It seems to me, monsieur, that you do
not understand all the dangers to which I
am exposed. It is difficult to master the
revolts of conscience.”

“ Indeed ! ” interrupted the count con-
temptuously; “your conscience revolts,
does it ? It has chosen its time badly.
Your scruples come too late. So long as
you saw, in succeeding me, an illustrious
title and a dozen or so of millions, it smiled
on you. To-day the name appears to you
laden with a heavy fault, — a crime, if you
will ; and your conscience revolts. Re-
nounce this tolly. Children, monsieur, are
accountable to their fathers; and they
should obey them. Willing or unwilling,
you must be my accomplice ; willing or un-
willing, you must bear the burden, as 1
have borne it. And, however much you

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

71

suffer, be assured it can never approach
what I have endured for so many years.”

Y “ Ah, monsieur ! ” cried Albert, “ is it then
/b the dispossessor, who has made this
trouble ? is it not, on the contrary, the dis-
possessed $ It is not I who have moved in
the matter ; it is Noel Gerdy.”

“ Noel ! ” repeated the count.

“ Your legitimate son, yes, monsieur.
You act as if the issue of this unhappy
affair depended solely upon my will. Do
you, then, imagine that Noel Gerdy will be
so easily disposed of, so easily silenced?
And, if he should raise his voice, do you
hope to accomplish much through the con-
siderations you have just mentioned ? ”

“ I have no doubt of it.”

“ Then you are wrong, monsieur, per-
mit me to tell you. Suppose for a moment
that this young man has ever had a soul
sufficiently noble to relinquish his claim
upon your rank and your fortune. Is there
not now the accumulated rancor of years
to urge him to oppose us? He cannot help
feeling a fierce resentment for the horrible
injustice of which he has been the victim.
He must passionately long for vengeance,
or rather reparation.”

“ He has no proofs.”

“ He has your letters, monsieur.”

“ They are not decisive, you have told me.”

“That is true, monsieur; and yet they
convinced me, who am interested in not
being convinced. Besides, if he needs
witnesses, he will find them.”

“ Who ? You, probably.”

“ Yourself, monsieur. The day when he
wishes it, you will betray us. Suppose you
were summoned belore the tribunals, and
that there, under oath, you should be re-
quired to speak the truth, what answer
would you make ? ”

M. de Commarin’s fhce darkened at this
very natural supposition. He hesitated, —
he whose honor was usually so great.

“ I would save the name of my ances-
tors,” he said at last.

Albert shook his head doubtfully.

“ At the price of a lie, my father,” he
said. “ I never will believe that. But let
us suppose even that. He will then Call
upon Madame Gerdy.”

“ Oh, I will answer for her ! ” cried the
count ; “ her interests are the same as ours.
If necessary, I will see her. Yes,” he
added with an effort, “I will go to her
house : I will speak to her ; and I will
guarantee that she does not betray us.”

“ And Claudine,” continued the young
man : “ will she be silent, too ? ”

“ For money, yes ; and I will give her
whatever she asks.”

“ And you would trust, father, to a paid
silence, as if one could ever be sure of a
purchased conscience? What is sold to
you may be sold to another. A certain sum
may close her mouth ; a much larger will
open it.”

“ I will risk it.”

“ You forget, father, that Claudine
Lerouge was Noel Gerdy’s nurse, that she
takes an interest in his happiness, that she
loves him. How do you know that he has
not already secured her aid ? She lives at
Bougival. I have been there, I remember,
with you. Without doubt, he sees her
often. Perhaps it was she who put him on
the track of this correspondence. He
spoke to me of her, as though he were sure
of her testimony. He almost proposed
my going to her for information.”

“Alas!” cried the count, “why is not
Claudine dead instead of my faithful Ger-
main ? ”

“ You see, monsieur,” concluded Albert,
“ Claudine Lerouge alone stands in the
way of your project.”

“ Ah, no ! ” cried the count ; “ I will find
some expedient.”

The obstinate old gentleman was not
willing to give in to this argument, whose
very clearness blinded him. The pride of
his blood paralyzed in him his usual practi-
cal good sense, and obscured his remarka-
ble clear headedness. To acknowledge
himself conquered by necessity humiliated
him, seemed to him disgraceful, unworthy
of him. He did not remember to have met
during his long career an invincible resis-
tance or an absolute impediment.

He was a little like those Hercules, who,
having never experienced a limit to their
strength, believe that they could overcome
mountains if they desired.

He had also the misfortune of all men
of imagination, who fall in love with their
projects, and who try to make them suc-
ceed on all occasions, as if wishing hard
was all that was necessary to change their
dreams into realities.

Albert this time broke the silence, whose
length threatened to be prolonged.

“ I see, monsieur,” he said, “ that you
fear, above all things, the publicity of this
sad history; the possible scandal renders you
desperate. But, unless we yield, the up-
roar will be terrible. If a writ is issued
against us to-morrow, in four days our trial
will be the talk of all Europe. The news-
papers will print tlm facts, accompanied by
heaven knows what comments of their
own. Our name, however the trial resu'ts,
will appear in all the papers of the world.
This might be borne, if we were sure of

72

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

succeeding ; but we might fail, my father,
— 1 we might fail. Then think of the noise,
think of the dishonor branded upon us in
public opinion.”

“I think,” said the count, “that you can
have neither respect nor affection for me,
when you speak in that way.”

“it is my duty, monsieur, to point out
to you the evils I see threatening, and which
there is yet time to shun. Noel Gerdy is
your legitimate son ; recognize him, acknowl-
edge his just pretensions, receive him. We
can make the change very quietly: It is
easy to account for it, through a mistake
of the nurse, — Claudine Lerouge, for in-
stance. All the parties being in accord,
there can be no trouble made. What is to
prevent the new Viscount de Commarin
from quitting Paris, and being lost to sight ?
He might travel in Europe four or five
years; by the end of that time, all will
be forgotten. No one will remember me
more.”

M. de Commarin was not listening : he
was deep in thought.

“ But instead of contesting, viscount,” he
cried, “ we might compromise. We may be
able to purchase these letters. What does
this young fellow want ? A position and a
fortune V I will give him both.- I will make
him as rich as he can ask. I will give him
a million ; if need be, two, three, — half of
all I possess. With money, you see, much
money — ”

“ Spare him, monsieur ; he is your son.”

“ Curse it ! and I wish him to the devil
for it ! I will show him that he had better
compromise. I will prove to him the bad
policy of the earthen pot beating against
the iron kettle ; and, if he is not a fool, he
will understand it.”

The count rubbed his hands while speak-
ing. He was delighted with this brilliant
plan of negotiation. It could not fail to
result favorably. A crowd of arguments
occurred to his mind for proving his case.
He would buy back again his lost quiet.

But Albert did not seem to share his
father’s hopes.

“ You will perhaps think it unkind in me,
monsieur,” said he sadly, “to dispel this
last illusion of yours ; but it must be. Do
not delude yourself with the idea of an amica-
ble arrangement : the awakening will only
be the more painful. I have seen this Ger-
<ly» my father; and he is not one, I assure
you, to be intimidated. If ever there was
an energetic will in the world, his is one.
He is truly your son ; and his expression,
lilce yours, shows an iron resolution, to be
broken but never bent. I can still hear
| his voice trembling with resentment, while

he spoke to me. I can still see the dark
fire of his eyes. No : he will never com-
promise. He will have all or nothing ; and
I cannot say that he is wrong. If we re-
sist, he will attack us without the slightest
consideration. Strong in his rights, he will
cling to us with stubborn animosity. He
will drag us from court to court ; he will
not stop short x>f utter defeat or complete
triumph.”

Accustomed to absolute, almost unresist-
ing obedience from his son, the old gentle-
man was astounded at this unexpected ob-
stinacy.

“ What is your purpose, then ? ” he
asked.

“ It is this, monsieur. I should utterly
despise myself, if I did not spare your old
age this greatest of calamities. Your name
does not belong to me ; I will take my own.
I am your natural son. I will yield to
your legitimate child. Permit me to with-
draw with at least the honor of having freely
done my duty. Do not force me to await ar-
rest by the tribunal, which would drive me
out in disgrace.”

“ What ! ” cried the count stunned, “ you
will abandon me ? You refuse to sustain me,
you turn against me, recognize the rights
of this man, in spite of my wishes ? ”

Albert bowed. He was much moved,
but still remained firm.

“ My resolution is irrevocably taken,” he
replied. “ I can never consent to despoil
your son.”

“ Cruel, ungrateful boy ! ” cried M. de
Commarin.

His wrath was such, that, when he found
he could do nothing by abuse, he passed at
once to jeering.

“ But no,” he continued, “ you are great,
you are noble, you are generous ; you are
acting after the most approved pattern of
chivalry, viscount, — I should say, my
very dear Monsieur Gerdy, — after the
fashion in Plutarch’s time 1 So you re-
nounce my name, my fortune, and you leave
me. You will shake the dust from your
shoes upon my threshold ; and you will go
out into the world. I see onlv one diffi-
culty in your way. How do you expect to
live, my stoic philosopher ? Have you an
estate at your fingers’ ends, like Jean
Jacques’ Emile? Or, my worthy Mon-
sieur Gerdy, have you learned econo-
my from the four thousand francs a month I
allow you for waxing your moustache V Per-
haps you will gamble at the Bourse ! Then
you will uphold my name with a vengeance,
— my name, that seems to you so very burden-
some to wear. Is dirt, then, so great an attrac-
tion for you that you must jump from the

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

73

carriage so eagerly? Say, rather, that
the company of my friends embarrasses
you, and that you are anxious to go where
you will be among your own equals.”

“I am very wretched, monsieur,” re-
plied Albert to this avalanche of insults,
“ and you would crush me I ”

“ You wretched l Well, whose ' fault is
it ? But let us get back to my question ;
how and on what will you live ? ”

“ I am not so romantic as you are pleased
to suggest, monsieur. I must confess that,
for the future, I have counted upon your
goodness. You are so rich, that five hun-
dred thousand francs would not materially
effect your fortune; and, on the income of
that sum, I could live quietly, if not happi-
1 y.”

“ And if I should refuse you this
money ? ”

“ I know you well enough, monsieur, to
feel sure that you will not refuse it. You
are too just to wish that I should expiate
alone the wrongs that were not of my
making. Left to myself, I should have, at
my present age, achieved a position. It is
too late for me to make one now ; but I
can at least try.”

“ Superb ! ” broke in the count ; “ this
is superb ! I never heard of such a hero
of romance. What a character ! It has
all the purity of Rome, all the firmness of
Sparta. It is as grand as any thing in an-
tiquity. But tell me, what do you expect
from all this astonishing disinterested-
ness ? ”

“ Nothing, monsieur.”

The count shrugged his shoulders, look-
ing sarcastically at his son.

“ The compensation is very slight. And
you expect to make me believe it ? No,
monsieur, mankind is not in the habit of
doing such fine actions for its own satisfac-
tion. You have some reason for acting so
grandly, which I fail to catch.”

“ None but what I have already told
you.”

“ Then you intend to renounce every
thing ; you will even abandon your pro-
posed union with Mademoiselle Claire
d’Arlanges ? You forget that for two years
I have in vain begged you to give this
marriage up.”

“ No, monsieur. I have seen Claire. I
have explained my unhappy position to
her. Whatever happens, she has sworn to
be my wife.”

“ And do you think that Madame
d’ Arranges will give her grand-daughter to
plain Monsieur Gerdy ? ”

“I hope so, monsieur. The marquise is
sufficiently infected with nobility to pre-

fer the natural child of a gentleman
to the son of some honest tradesman ;
but if she refuses, — ah ! well, we will
await her death, though without desiring
it.”

Albert’s uniformly calm tone enraged
the count.

“ Can this be my son ? ” he cried.
“ Never ! What blood have you in your
veins, monsieur? Perhaps your worthy
mother might tell us, provided she ever
knew herself.”

“Monsieur,” broke in Albert fiercely,
“ think well before you speak. She is my
mother, and that is sufficient. I am her
son, not her judge. No one in my presence
shall speak disrespectfully of her: I will
not permit it, monsieur ; and I will suffer
it least of all from you.”

The count used truly heroic efforts to
keep his anger within bounds ; but he was
beside himself at Albert’s position, What,
he rebelled, he dared to brave him to his
face, he threatened him ! The old man
jumped from his chair, and moved toward
his son as if he would strike him.

“ Leave the room ! ” he cried, in a voice
choking with rage, — “ leave the room in-
stantly! Retire to your apartments, and
take care not to leave them witliout my
orders. To-morrow I will give you my
decision.”

Albert bowed respectfully, but without
lowering his eyes, and walked slowly to the
door. He had already opened it, when
M. de Commarin experienced one of those
revulsions of feeling, so frequent in violent
natures.

“ Albert,” said he, “ come back and lis-
ten to me.”

The young man turned, much affected
by this change of tone.

“ Do not go,” continued the count, “ until
I have asked your pardon. You are wor-
thy of being the heir of a great house,
monsieur. I may be irritated by you ; but
I can never lose my esteem for you. You
are a noble man, Albert. Give me your
hand.”

This was a happy moment for both, and
such a one as they had scarcely ever expe-
rienced in their lives, restrained as they had
been by cold etiquette. The count felt
proud of his son, and recognized in him
himself at that age. As for Albert, the
real meaning of the scene then occurring
impressed him: it had until now escaped
him. For a long time their hands remained
clasped, without either being able to utter
a word.

At last, M. de Commarin resumed his
seat beneath the genealogical chart.

74

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ I must ask you to leave me, Albert/’
he said kindly. “ I must be alone, to reflect
upon, to try and accustom myself to this
terrible blow.”

And, as the young man closed the door,
he added, as if giving vent to his inmost
thoughts, —

“ If he deserts me, in whom I have placed
all my hope, what will become of me ? O
my God ! And what can the other ever
be to me ? ”

Albert’s features, when he left the
count’s study, bore traces of the violent
emotions he had felt during the interview.
The servants whom he met noticed it the
more, as they had heard something of the
quarrel.

“ Well,” said an old footman who had
been in the family thirty years, u the count
has had another unhappy scene with his
son. The old fellow has been in a dread-
ful passion.”

“ I got wind of it at dinner,” spoke up a
valet de chambre : “ the count restrained him-
self enough not to burst out before me ;
but he rolled his eyes fiercely.”

“ What can be the matter? ”

“ Pshaw ! that’s more than they know
themselves. Why, Denis, before whom
they always speak freely, says that they
often wrangle lor hours together, like dogs,
about things which he can never see
through.”

“ Ah,” cried out a young fellow, who was
being trained to service, “ if I were in the
viscount’s place, I’d settle the old gent
pretty effectually 1 ”

“ Joseph, my friend,” said the footman
pointedly, “ you are a fool. You might
give your father his walking ticket very
properly, because you never expect five
sous from him ; and you have already
learned how to earn your living without
doing any work at all. But the viscount,
ray tell me what he is good for, what he
nows how to do ? Put him in the centre
of Paris, with only his fine hands for capi-
tal, and you will see.”

“ Yes, but he has his mother’s property
in Normandy,” replied Joseph.

“ I can’t for the life of me,” said the
valet de chambre , “ see what the count
finds to complain of; for his son is a per-
fect model, and I shouldn’t be sorry to have
one like him. There was a very different
pair, when I was in the Marquis de Courti-
vois’s service. He was one who made it a
point never to be in good humor. His
eldest son, who is a friend of the viscount’s
and who comes here occasionally, is a pit
without a bottom, as far as money is con-
cerned. He will fritter away a thousand-

franc note quicker than Joseph can smoke
a pipe.”

“But the marquis is not rich,” said a
little old man, who himself had perhaps the
enormous wages of fifteen francs ; “ he can’t
have more than sixty thousand francs’
income at the most.”

“ That’s why he gets angry. Every day
there is some new story about his son. He
had an apartment in the house ; he went
in and out when he pleased; he passed his
nights in gaming and drinking; he cut up
so°with the actresses that the police had to
interfere. Besides all this, I have many a
time had to help him up to his room, and
put him to bed, when the waiters from the
restaurants brought him home in a car-
riage, so drunk that he could scarcely say
a word.”

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed Joseph enthusiasti-
cally, “ this fellow’s service must be
mighty profitable.”

“ That was according to circumstances.
When he won at play, he was lavish with
his money ; but he always lost : and, when
he was drunk, he had a quick temper, and
didn’t spare the blows. I must do him the
justice to say, though, that his cigars were
splendid. But he was a ruffian ; while the
viscount here is a true child of wisdom.
He is severe upon our faults, it is true ;
but he is never harsh nor brutal to his
servants. Then he is uniformly generous ;
which in the long run pays us best. I
must say that he is better than the major-
ity, and that the count is very unreason-
able.”

Such was the judgment of the ser-
vants. That of society was perhaps less
favorable.

The Viscount de Commarin was not one
of those who possess the rather questiona-
ble and at times unenviable accomplish-
ment of pleasing every one. He was wise
enough to distrust those astonishing per-
sonages who are always praising every-
body. In looking about us, we often see
men of success and reputation, who are
simply dolts, without any merit except
their perfect insignificance. That stupid
propriety which offend^ no one, that uni-
form politeness which shocks no one’s van-
ity, have peculiarly the gift of pleasing and
of succeeding.

One cannot meet certain people without
saying, “I know that face ; I have seen it
somewhere before ; ” because it has no indi-
viduality, but simply resembles faces seen
in a common crowd. It is precisely so
with the minds of certain other people.
When they speak, you know exactly what
they are going to say : you have heard the

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

75

same thing so many times already from
them, you know all their ideas by heart.
These people are welcomed everywhere ;
because they have nothing peculiar about
them; and peculiarity, especially in the
upper classes, is always irritating and
offensive : they detest all innovations.

Albert was peculiar; consequently much
mscussed, and very differently estimated.
He was charged with sins of the most op-
posite character, with faults so contradic-
tory that they were their own defence.
Some accuse him, for instance, of enter-
taining ideas entirely too liberal for one of
his rank ; and, at the same time, others
complained of his excessive arrogance.
He was charged with treating with insult-
ing levity the most serious questions, and
was then blamed for his affectation of
gravity. People knew him scarcely well
enough to love him, while they were jeal-
ous of him and feared him.

He wore a bored look in all fashionable
reunions, which was considered very bad
taste. Forced by his relations, by his
father, to go into society a great deal, he
was bored, and committed the unpardona-
ble sin of letting it be seen. Perhaps he
had been disgusted by the constant court
made to him, by the rather coarse atten-
tions which were never spared the noble
heir of one of the richest families in
France. Having all the necessary qualities
for shining, he despised them. Dreadful
sin ! he did not abuse his advantages ;
and no one ever heard of his getting into
a scrape.

He had had once, it was said, a very de-
cided liking for Madame Prosny, perhaps
the naughtiest, certainly the most mischiev-
ous woman in Paris; but that was all.
Mothers who had daughters to dispose of
upheld him; but, for the last two years,
they had turned against him, when his love
for Mademoiselle d’Arlanges became well
known.

At the club, they rallied him on his
prudence. He had had, like others, his.
run of follies; but he had soon got dis-
gusted with what it is the fashion to call
pleasure. The noble profession of bon viv-
ant appeared to him very tame and tire-
some. He did not enjoy passing his nights
at cards ; nor did he appreciate the soci-
ety of those frail sisters, who in Paris give
notoriety to their lovers. He affirmed that
a gentleman was not necessarily an ob-
ject of ridicule, because he would not ex-
pose himself in the theatre with these
women. Finally, none of his friends could
ever, inoculate him with a passion for the
turf.

As doing nothing wearied him, he at-
tempted, like the parvenu, to give some
meaning to life by work. He purposed,
after a while, to take part in public affairs;
and, as he had often been struck with the
gross ignorance of many men in power, he
wished to avoid their example, lie busied
himself with politics; and this was the
cause of all his quarrels with his father.
The one word of “ liberal ” was enough to
throw the count into convulsions ; and he
suspected his son of liberalism, ever since
reading an article by the viscount, pub-
lished in the “ Revue des Deux Mondes.”

His ideas, however, did not prevent his
fully sustaining his rank. He spent most
nobly on the world the revenue which
placed his father and himself a little above
it. His establishment, distinct from the
count’s, was arranged as that of a wealthy
young gentleman’s ought to be. His liver-
ies left nothing to be desired ; and his
horses and equipages were celebrated.
Letters of invitation were eagerly sought
for to the grand hunting parties, which he
formed every year towards the end of Oc-
tober at Commarin, — an admirable piece
of property, covered with immense woods.

Albert’s love for Claire — a deep, well-
considered love — had contributed not a
little to keep him from the habits and life
of the pleasant and elegant idleness in-
dulged in by his friends. A noble attach-
ment is always a great safeguard. In contend-
ing against it, M. de Commarin had only
succeeded in increasing its intensity and
insuring its continuance. This passion, so
annoying to the count, was the source of
the most vivid, the most powerful emotions
in the viscount. Ennui was banished from
his existence.

All his thoughts took the same direc-
tion ; all his actions had but one aim.
Could he look to the right or the left,
when, at the end of his journey, he per-
ceived the reward so ardently desired?
He resolved that he would never have any
wife but Claire ; his father absolutely
refused his consent. The effort to change
this refusal had long been the business of
his life. Finally, alter three years of per-
severance, he had triumphed; the count
had given his consent. And now, just as
he was reaping the happiness of success,
Noel had arrived, implacable as fate, with
his cursed letters.

On leaving M. de Commarin, and while
slowly mounting the stairway which led to
his apartment, Albert’s thoughts reverted
to Claire. What was she doing at this
moment ? Thinking of him, without a
doubt. She knew that the crisis would

76

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

come this very evening, or to-morrow at the
latest. She must be praying.

Albert felt. broken down. His suffering
was intense. He felt dizzy ; his head
seemed ready to burst. He rang, and or-
dered some tea.

•“ Monsieur does wrong in not sending
for the doctor,” said Lubin, his valet de
chambre. “ I ought to disobey you, and
send for him myself.”

“ It would be useless,” replied Albert
sadly; “he could do nothing for my ill-
ness.”

As the valet was leaving the room, he
added, —

“ Say nothing about my suffering to any
one, Lubin : it is nothing at all. If I am
really ill, I will ring.”

At that moment, to see any one, to hear
a voice, to have to reply, seemed insupport-
able. He longed to be left entirely to
himself.

After the painful emotions arising from
his explanations with the count, he could
not sleep. He opened one of the library
windows, and leaned against the casement.
It was a beautiful night : and there was a
lovely moon. Seen at this hour, by the
mild, tremulous evening light, the gardens
seemed twice their usual size. The mo-
tionless tops of the great trees stretched
away like an immense plain, hiding the
neighboring houses. The clumps in the
flower garden, set off by the green shrub-
bery, appeared like great black figures ;
while in the carefully sanded walks sparkled
particles of shell, little pieces of glass, and
the polished pebbles. At the right, in the
still lighted servants’ quarters, could be
seen the servants passing to and fro ; and
the step of a groom sounded qn the pave-
ment in the court. The horses stamped in
the stable ; and the rattling of their halter
chains against the bars of the manger
could be distinguished. In the carriage-
house they were unharnessing the vehicle,
always kept ready throughout the evening,
in case the count should wish to go out.

Albert had there under his eyes a com-
plete picture of his magnificence. He
sighed deeply.

“ Must I, then, lose all this ? ” he murmur-
ed. “I can scarcely, even for myself)
abandon so many splendors without re-
gret ; and thinking of Claire makes it
harder. Have I not dreamed of a life of
exceptional happiness for her almost im-
possible to realize without wealth? ”

Midnight sounded from St. Clotilde,
whose twin arrows he could perceive by
leaning slightly forward.

He shivered ; it was growing cold.

He closed his window, and sat down near
the fire, which he stirred up. In the hope
of obtaining a respite from his thoughts,
he took up the evening paper, in which
was an account of the assassination at
Jonchere; but he found it impossible to
read. The lines danced before his eyes.
Then he thought of writing to Claire. He
sat down at his desk, and wrote, “ My dear-
ly loved Claire.” He could go no further ;
his distracted brain could not furnish him
with a single sentence.

At last, at break of day, weariness over-
powered him, sleep surprised him, on a
sofa, where he had thrown himself, — a
heavy sleep peopled with phantoms.

At half-past nine in the morning, he was
awakened with a start, by the noise of his
door being opened with a crash.

A servant entered, frightened, so breath-
less, having come up the stairway four
steps at a time, that he could scarcely
speak.

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ viscount, quick,
fly, hide yourself, save yourself : they are
here, they — ”

A commissary of police, in uniform, ap-
peared at the library door. He was fol-
lowed by a number of men, among whom
could be seen, keeping as much out of sight
as possible, Pdre Tabaret.

The commissary approached Albert.

“ You are,” he asked, “ Guy Louis Marie
Albert de Rheteau de Commarin V ”

“ Yes, monsieur.”

The commissary raised his hand, while
pronouncing the usual formula.

“Monsieur de Commarin, in the name
of the law I arrest you.”

“ Me, monsieur ? me ? ”

Albert, aroused suddenly from his pain-
ful dreams, seemed hardly to comprehend
what was taking place. He seemed to ask
himself, —

“ Am I really awake ? Is not this some
hideous nightmare ? ”

He threw a stupid look, much to the
astonishment of the commissary of police,
upon the men, and upon Pere Tabaret,
who acted very much as though he was the
one arrested.

“Here is the warrant,” added the com-
missary, unfolding the paper.

Mechanically Albert glanced over it. .

“ Claudine assassinated ! ” he cried.

Then very low, but distinct enough to be
heard by the commissary, by one of the
officers, and by Pere Tabaret, he added, —

“ I am lost ! ”

While the commissary was making the for-
mal inquiries, which immediately follow all
arrests, the officers spread through the apart-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

77

ment, and proceeded to a searching exam-
ination of them : they had reoeived orders
to obey Pere Tabaret ; and the old fellow
guided them in their researches, made them
ransack drawers and closets, and move the
furniture. They seized quite a number
of articles belonging to the viscount, —
papers, manuscripts, and a very voluminous
correspondence ; but it was with especial
delight that Pere Tabaret put his hands on
certain articles, which were carefully de-
scribed in order in the official report.

1. In the first room, — a waiting-room,
hung with all sorts of weapons, — behind
a sofa, a broken foil. This foil had a pe-
culiar handle, and was unlike those com-
monly sold. It bore the count’s coronet,
with the initials A. C. It had been broken
at about the middle; and the end could
not be found. When asked, the viscount
declared that he could give no account as to
what had become of the missing end.

2. In the dressing-room, pantaloons of
black cloth still wet, bearing stains of mud
or dirt. All one side was covered with
greenish moss, as if the wearer had climbed
over a wall. In front, there were numerous
rents ; and near the knee was one ten centi-
metres long. The aforesaid pantaloons had
not been hung up in the Wardrobe, but ap-
peared to have been hidden between two
large trunks full of clothing.

3. In the pocket of the above-described
pantaloons were found a pair of pearl gray
gloves. The palm of the right hand glove
showed a large greenish stain, produced by
crass or moss. The end of the fingers
Sad been worn by rubbing. Upon the
back of both gloves, scratches were noticed,
evidently made by finger-nails.

4. Two pairs of boots, one of which,
well cleaned, were still damp; an umbrella
recently wetted, the end of which was
still covered with white mud.

5. In a large room, called “ the library,”
a box of cigars of the trabucos brand, and
upon the mantle a number of cigar-holders
in amber and meerschaum.

The last article noted down, Pere Taba-
ret approached the commissary of police.

« I have every thing I could desire,” he
whispered.

“ And I have finished, too,” replied the
commissary. “ This chap here don’t seem
to know exactly how to act. Do you see ?
He gave in on the first attack. I ^suppose
you 'will call it lack of experience.”

“Before the day is over,” replied the
amateur detective in a whisper, “ he won’t
be quite so crest-fallen. But now, suddenly
awakened, you know— Always arrest

them early in the morning ; take them in
bed before they are awake.”

“ I have spoken with two or three of the
servants. They tell some singular stories.”

“ Very well : we shall see. But I must
hurry and find the judge of inquiry, who
will be impatient.”

Albert began to revive a little from the
stupor into which he had been plunged on
the entrance of the commissary of police.

“ Monsieur,” he asked, “ will you permit
me to say a few words in your presence to
the Count de Commarin ? I am a victim
of some mistake, which will be quickly
remedied.”

“ It’s always a mistake,” muttered Pere
Tabaret.

“ What you ask is impossible,” replied
the commissary. “I have special orders
of the strictest sort. You cannot ‘hence-
forth communicate with a living soul. A
carriage is in waiting below. Will you
descend ? ”

In crossing the vestibule, Albert noticed
great agitation among the servants.
They all seemed to have lost their senses.
Denis gave orders in a sharp, imperative
tone. Then he thought he heard that the
Count de Commarin had been struck with
apoplexy. After that, he remembered
nothing.

They almost carried him to the carriage ;
which drove off as fast as the two little
horses could go. A more rapid vehicle
bore away Pere Tabaret.

CHAPTER X.

The visitor who risks himself in the laby-
rinth of galleries and stairways in the
palais de justice, and mounts to the third
story in the left wing, will find himself in a
long, low-studded gallery, badly lighted by
narrow windows, and pierced at short inter-
vals by little doors, like a hall at the minis-
try or at a lodging house.

Tt is a place difficult to view calmly, the
imagination makes it appear so dark and
dismal.

It needs a Dante to compose an inscrip-
tion to place above the doors which lead
from it. From morning to night, the flag-
stones resound under the heavy tread of the
gendarmes, who accompany the prisoners.
You can scarcely recall any thing but sad
figures there. There are the parents or
friends of the accused, the witnesses, the
detectives. In this gallery, far from the
sight of men, the judicial curriculum is
gone through with.

78

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

Each one of the little doors, which has
its number -painted over it in black, opens
into the office of a judge of inquiry. All
the rooms are just alike : if you see one,
you have seen them all. They have noth-
ing terrible nor sad in themselves ; and yet
it is difficult to enter one of them without
a shudder. They are cold. The walls all
seem moist with the tears which have been
shed there. You shudder, at thinking of
the avowals wrested from criminals, of the
confessions broken with sobs murmured
there.

In the office of the judge of inquiry,
Justice clothes herself in none of that ap-
parel which she afterwards dons in order
to strike fear into the masses. She is still
simple, and almost disposed to kindness.
She says to the prisoner, —

“ I have strong reasons for thinking you
guilty ; but prove to me your innocence,
and I will release you.”

On entering one of these rooms, a
stranger would imagine that he had got
into a cheap shop by mistake. The furni-
ture is of the most primitive sort, as is the
.case in all places where important matters
are transacted. Of what consequence are
surroundings to the judge hunting down the
author of a crime, or to the accused who is
defending his life ?

A desk full of documents for the judge,
a table for the clerk, an arm-chair, and one
or two chairs besides comprise the entire
furniture of the antechamber of the court
of assize. The walls are hung with green
paper ; the curtains are green, and the
floors are carpeted in the same color.
Monsieur Daburon’s office bore the number
fifteen.

At nine o’clock in the morning, he had
arrived, and was waiting. His course re-
solved upon, he lost not an instant, under-
standing as well as Pere Tabaret the neces-
sity of rapid action. So he had already had
an interview with the imperial solicitor,
and had consulted the officers of the police
judiciary.

Besides the warrant issued against Al-
bert, he had despatched summons of imme-
diate appearance, before him, to the Count
de Commarin, Madame Gerdy, Noel, and
some of Albert’s servants.

He thought it essential to examine all
these before calling in the prisoner.

Under his orders, ten detectives were
sent into the country ; and he himself sat
in his office, like a general of an army, who
sends off his aides-de-camp to begin the
battle, and who hopes for victory through
his combinations.

Olten, at this same hour, he had sat in

this same office, under conditions almost
identical. A crime had been committed :
he believed he had discovered the criminal;
he had given orders for his arrest. Was
not that his duty ? But he had never ex-
perienced this anxiety of mind which dis-
turbed him now. Many a time had he
issued warrants of arrest, without having
nearly half the proofs which shone out so
clearly in the present case. He kept
repeating this to himself ; and yet he could
not quiet this dreadful anxiety, which
would not give him a moment’s rest.

He wondered why his people were so
long in making their appearance. He
walked up and down the room, counting
the minutes, drawing out his watch three
times within the quarter of an hour, to
compare it with the clock. Hearing a step
in the gallery, nearly deserted at that hour,
he involuntarily moved near the door,
stopped and listened.

Some one knocked. It was his clerk,
late this morning.

There was nothing particular in this
man ; he was long rather than large, and
very slim. His gait was precise, his gest-
ures methodical ; his face was as impassive
as if it had been cut out of a piece of yel-
low wood.

He was thirty-four years of age, and
since thirty had taken minutes of examina-
tion for four judges of inquiry in succes-
sion. It is said that he could hear, with-
out moving a muscle, the most utter absurdi-

O 7

ties.

An ingenious writer has thus defined a
clerk, “A pen for the judge of inquiry; a
personage who is dumb but speaks, who is
blind but writes, who is deaf but hears.”
This man answered the definition. His
name was Constant.

He bowed to the judge, and excused
himself for his tardiness. He had been
busy with his book-keeping, which he did
every morning; and he had got so inter-
ested in it that his wife had had to remind
him of the way time was passing.

“ You are still in good time,” said Dab-
uron ; “ but we shall have plenty of work :
so you had better get your papers ready.”

Five minutes later, the usher introduced
Noel Gerdy.

He entered with an easy manner, like
an advocate who had considerable practice
in the palais, and who knew its ways. He
in no way resembled, this morning, the
friend of Pere Tabaret ; still less could he
have been recognized as the lover of
Madame Juliette. He was entirely another
being, or rather he had resumed his cus-
tomary role.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

79

It was now the official who appeared, —
one who recognized his confreres, esteemed
his friends, was beloved in the circle of his
acquaintance.

From his firm step, his placid face, one
would never imagine that, after an evening
of emotion and excitement, after a stolen
visit to his mistress, he had passed the
night by the pillow of a dying woman, and
that woman his mother, or at least the one
who had filled his mother’s place.

What a contrast between him and the
judge !

The judge had not slept either ; and
you could see lack of rest in his feebleness,
in his anxious look, in the dark circles
about his eyes. The front of his shirt was
all rumpled ; not even his cuffs were fresh.
Occupied with the course of events, the
soul had forgotten the body. Noel’s well-
shaved chin, on the contrary, rested upon
an irreproachably white cravat ; his collar
had not a wrinkle ; his hair and his whisk-
ers were most carefully brushed. He
bowed to Daburon, and held out his sum-
mons.

“ You summoned me, monsieur,” he said ;
“ and I am at your orders.”

The judge of inquiry had met the young
advocate several times in the lobbies of the
palais; and he recognized him at sight.
He remembered having heard this Gerdy
spoken of as a man of talent and promise,
whose reputation was fast rising. He
therefore welcomed him as a fellow-work-
man, and invited him to be seated.

The preliminaries common in the exam-
inations of all witnesses ended ; the name,
surname, age, place of business, and so on
registered, the judge, who had followed
his clerk with his eyes while he was writ-
ing, turned to Noel.

“Do you know, Monsieur Gerdy,” he
began, “ the business on account of which
you are troubled with appearing before
me ? ”

“ Yes, monsieur, the assassination of the
poor old woman at Jonchere.”

“ Precisely,” replied Daburon.

Then, calling to mind his promise to
Pere Tabaret, he added, —

“ If Justice has summoned you so
promptly, it is because we have found your
name often mentioned in the papers of the
Widow Lerouge.”

“ I am not surprised at that,” replied the
advocate : “ we have been much interested
in this good woman, who was my nurse;
and I know that Madame Gerdy wrote to
her quite often.”

“ Very well ; you can then give me some
information about her.”

“It will be, I fear, monsieur, very in-
complete. I know very little about this

oor Mother Lerouge. I was taken from

er at a very early age ; and, since I have
been a man, I have thought little about
her, except to send her occasionally a little
aid.”

“ You have never visited her ? ”

“ Oh, yes ! I have gone there many
times ; but I remained only a few moments
each time. Madame Gerdy, who has often
seen her, and to whom she entrusted all
her affairs, could enlighten you much bet-
ter than I, however.”

“ I expect,” said the judge, “ to see
Madame Gerdy here; she must have re-
ceived a summons.”

“ She has, monsieur ; but it will be im-
possible for her to appear : she is ill.”

“ Seriously ? ”

“ So seriously that you will be obliged, I
think, to give up all expectations from her
testimony. She is attacked with a disease
which, in the words of my friend, Dr.
Herve, never pardons. It is something
like inflammation of the brain, — encepha-
lite, if I am not mistaken. It may be that
her life will be saved ; but she will never
recover her reason. If she does not die,
she will be insane.”

Daburon appeared much troubled.

“ This is very vexatious,” he muttered.
“ And you think, my dear sir, that it will
be impossible to obtain any thing from
her ? ”

“ It is useless even to hope for it. She
has completely lost her reason. She was,
when I left her, in such a state of utter
prostration that I fear she cannot live
through the day.”

“ And when was she attacked by this
illness ? ”

“ Yesterday evening.”

“ Suddenly ? ”

“Yes, monsieur, apparently, at least;
though I myself think she has been suffer-
ing from it for the last three weeks at
least. But yesterday, on rising from din-
ner, after having eaten but little, she took
up a newspaper ; and, by a most unhappy
chance, her eyes fell exactly upon the linos
which told of this crime. All at once- she
uttered a loud cry, fell back in her chair,
and thence slipped to the floor, murmuring,
‘ Oh, the unhappy man, the unhappy
man ! ’ ”

“ The unhappy woman, you mean ”

“ No, monsieur. I spoke advisedly.
Evidently the exclamation did not refer to
my poor nurse.”

Upon this reply, so important and yet
made in the most unconscious tone, Dabu-

80

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

ron raised his eyes to the witness. The
advocate lowered his head.

“ And then ? ” asked the judge, after a
moment’s silence, during which he had
taken a few notes.

“ Those words, monsieur, were the last
spoken by Madame Gerdy. Assisted by
our servant, I carried her to her bed. The.
doctor was called ; and, since then, she
has not recovered consciousness. The
doctor — ”

“ It is well,” interrupted Daburon. “ Let
us leave that for the present. Do you
know, monsieur, any one who might have
been at enmity with the Widow Lerouge? ”

“ No, monsieur.”

“ She had no enemies? Well, now tell
me, does there exist to your knowledge
any one having any interest whatever in
the death of this poor woman ? ”

The judge of inquiry, in putting this
question, kept his eyes fixed on Noel’s, not
allowing him to turn or lower his head.

The advocate started, and seemed deep-
ly moved. He was disconcerted ; he hesi-
tated, as if a struggle was going on within
him.

Finally, in a voice which was by no
means firm, he replied, —

“ No, no one.”

“ Is that really true ? ” demanded the
judge, looking at him more sternly. “ You
know no one whom this crime benefits, or
whom it might benefit, — absolutely no
one?”

“ I know only one thing, monsieur,”
replied Noel ; “ and that is, that, as far as I
am concerned, it has caused me an irrepar-
able injury.”

“ At last,” thought Daburon, “ we have
got at the letters ; and I have not betrayed
poor Fere Tabaret. It would be too bad
to cause the least trouble to that zealous
and invaluable man.”

“ An injury to you, my dear sir ? ” he
replied ; “ you will, I hope, explain yourself.”

The embarrassment, of which Noel had
already given some signs, appeared now
much more marked.

“ I am aware, monsieur,” he replied, “ that
I owe justice not merely the truth, but the
whole truth ; but there are circumstances
involved so delicate that the conscience of
a man of honor sees danger to itself. Then
it is very hard to be obliged to unveil these
sad secrets, whose revelations may some-
time — ”

Daburon interrupted with a gesture.
Noel’s sad tone impressed him. Knowing,
beforehand, what lie was about to hear, he
was pained for the young advocate. He
turned to his clerk.

“ Constant ! ” said he in a peculiar tone.

This tone was evidently a signal ; for the
long clerk arose methodically, put his pen
behind his ear, and went out in his meas-
ured tread.

Noel appeared sensible of this delicacy.
His face expressed the strongest gratitude :
his look returned thanks.

“ I am so much obliged to you, monsieur,”
he said with suppressed warmth, “ for your
generous kindness. What I have to say is
very painful ; but, before you now, it will
be scarcely an effort to speak.”

“Fear nothing,” replied the judge; “I
will only retain in your deposition, my dear
sir, what seems to me absolutelv indispen-
sable.”

“ I feel scarcely master of myself, mon-
sieur,” began Noel ; “ so pray pardon my
emotion. If any words escape me that
seem charged with bitterness, excuse them ;
it will be involuntarily. Up to the past
few days, I always believed that I was the
offspring of illicit love. My history is
short. I have been honorably ambitious.
I have worked hard. He who has no
name must make one, you know. I have
passed a quiet life, retired and austere,
as people must, who, starting at the foot of
the ladder, wish to reach the top. I wor-
shipped her whom I believed to be my
mother ; and I felt convinced that she loved
me in return. The stain of my birth had
some humiliations attached to it ; but I
despised them. Comparing my lot with
that of so many others, I felt that I had
more than common advantages. One day,
Providence placed in my hands all'the let-
ters which my father, the Count de Com-
marin, had written to Madame Gerdy at
the time of their liaison. On reading these
letters, I was convinced that I was not what
I had hitherto believed myself to be, —
that Madame Gerdv was not my mother ! ”

And, without giving Daburon time to
reply, he laid before him the facts which,
twelve hours before, he had recounted to
Pore Tabaret.

It was the same story, with the same cir-
cumstances, the same abundance of precise
and conclusive details; but the tone was
entirely changed. Before the old detective,
the young advocate had been emphatic and
violent ; but now, in the office of the judge
of inquiry, he had restrained and sobered
his violent emotions.

One might imagine that he adapted his
manner to his auditor, wishing to produce
the same effect on both, and using that
method which would best accomplish his
purpose.

To Pere Tabaret, an ordinary mind, he

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

81

used the exaggeration of anger ; to Dabu-
ron, of superior intelligence, he used the
exaggeration of restraint.

While his mind rebelled against his
unjust lot, he nevertheless seemed to bow,
armed with resignation, before a blind
fatality.

With genuine eloquence and rare happi-
ness of expression, he drew his situation
on the day following the discovery, — his
grief, his perplexity, his doubts.

To support this moral certainty, there
needed some positive testimony. Could he
hope for this from the count or from Mad-
ame Gerdy, both interested in concealing
the truth V No. But he had counted upon
that of his nurse, — the poor old woman
who loved him, and who, near the close of
her life, would be glad to free her con-
science from this heavy load. She was
dead now; and the letters became mere
waste papers in his hands.

Then he passed to his explanation with
Madame Gerdy; and he .gave the judge
even fuller details than he had given his
old neighbor.

She had, he said, at first utterly denied
the substitution ; but he gave it to be un-
derstood that, plied with questions, over-
come by the evidence, in a moment of
despair she had confessed all, declaring at
the same time that she would retract and
deny this confession, being resolved at all
hazards that her son should preserve his
position.

From this scene, in the advocate’s judg-
ment, the first attacks of the sickness, to
which she had finally succumbed, might be
dated.

Noel then described his interview with
the Viscount de Commarin.

In his narrative, there slipped in a few
inaccuracies, but so slight that it would be
difficult to charge him with them. Besides,
there was nothing in them at all unfavora-
ble to Albert.

He insisted, on the contrary, upon the ex-
cellent impression which he had received of
that young man.

Albert had received the revelation with a
certain defiance, it is true, but with a noble
firmness at the same time, and, like a brave
heart, was ready to bow before the justifi-
cation of right.

In fact, he drew an almost enthusiastic
portrait of this rival, who had not been
spoiled by prosperity, who had left him
without a look of hatred, towards whom he
felt himself drawn, and who after all was
his brother.

Daburon had listened to Noel with the
most unremitting attention, without a word,
6

a movement, a frown, betraying his feelings.
When he had ended, —

“How, monsieur,” observed the judge,
“could you have told me that, in your opin-
ion, no one was interested in the death of
the Widow Lerouge ? ”

The advocate made no reply.

“It seems to me that the Viscount de
Commarin’s position has by it become al-
most impregnable. Madame Gerdy is insane;
the count will deny all ; your letters prove
nothing. It is evident that the crime is
of the greatest service to this young man,
and that it was committed at a singularly
favorable moment.’*

“ O monsieur ! ” cried Noel, protesting
with all his energy, “ this insinuation is
dreadful.”

The judge watched the advocate’s face
narrowly. Was he speaking frankly, or
was he but playing the generous role?
Could it really be that he had never had
any suspicion of this ? Noel did not flinch
under the gaze, but almost immediately
continued, —

“ What reason could Albert have for
trembling, fearing for his position ? I did
not utter one word of threat, even indi-
rectly. I did not present myself raging,
like a robbed man, who demands that
every thing which had been taken from
him should be restored on the spot. I
merely presented the facts to Albert, say-
ing, ‘ Here, what do you think we ought to
do°? Be the judge.’ ”

“ And he asked you for time ? ”

“Yes. I had just suggested his accom-
panying me to the Widow Lerouge, whose
testimony might dispel all doubts ; he did
not seem to understand me. But he was
well acquainted with her, having often vis-
ited her with the count, who supplied her, I
have since learned, liberally with money.”

“ Does not this generosity appear to you
very singular ? ”

“ No.”

“ Can you explain why the viscount did
not appear disposed to accompany you ? ”

“ Certainly. He said that he wished,
before all, to have an explanation with his
father, who was then absent, but who
would return within a few days. ”

The truth, as all the world knows, and
delights in proclaiming, has an accent
which no one can mistake. Daburon
had not the slightest doubt of his wit-
ness’s good faith. Noel continued with
an ingenuous candor, like an honest heart,
which suspicion has never touched with its
bat’s wing.

“ The idea of treating at once with my
father pleased me exceedingly. I consider

82

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

it so much better to wash all one’s dirty
linen at home, that I have never desired
any thing but an amicable arrangement.
With my hands full of proofs, I should still
recoil from a public trial.”

“ Would you not have brought an ac-
tion ? ”

“ Never, monsieur, at any price. Could
I,” he added, proudly, “ on assuming my
rightful name, begin by dishonoring it ? ”

For once, Daburon could not conceal his
sincere admiration.

“ A most praiseworthy feeling, mon-
sieur,” he said.

“ I think,” replied Noel, “ it is but natu-
ral. If the worse came to the worst, I had
determined to leave my title with Albert.
Certainly the name of Commarin is an
illustrious one ; but I hope that, within ten
years, mine will be equally so. I would
have simply demanded a large pecuniary
compensation. I possess nothing ; and I
have often been hampered in my career by
this miserable question of money. That
which Madame Gerdy owed to the gener-
osity of my father was almost entirely
spent. My education had absorbed a great
part of it ; and it was long before my pro-
fession covered my expenses. Madame
Gerdy and I lived very quietly ; but, unfor-
tunately, though simple in her tastes, she
lacked economy and system : and no one
can imagine how great our expenses have
been. But I have nothing to reproach
myself wit h, whatever happens. From the
commencement, I have kept my anger well
under control ; and even now I bear no
ill-will. On learning of the death of my
nurse, though, I cast all my hopes into the
sea.”

“ You are wrong, my dear sir,” said the
judge. “ I advise you to still hope. Per-
haps, before the end is reached, you will
yet enter into possession of your rights.
Justice, I will not conceal from you, thinks
she has found the assassin of the Widow
Lerouge. At this moment, the Viscount
Albert is doubtless under arrest.”

“ What ! ” exclaimed Noel with a sort of
stupor; “can it be true? I was, then, not
mistaken, monsieur, in the meaning of your
words. I dreaded to understand them.”

“ You have not mistaken me, monsieur,”
said Daburon. “ I thank you for you sin-
cere, straightforward explanations; they
have eased my task materially. To-mor-
row, — for to-day my time is all taken up,
— we will regularly take your deposition,
at this same hour, if convenient to you.
There is nothing more, I believe, except to
ask you for the letters in your possession,
and which are indispensable to me.”

“ Within an hour, monsieur, you shall
have them,” replied Noel.

And he retired, after having, warmly ex-
pressed his gratitude to the judge of in-
quiry.

Less preoccupied, the advocate per-
ceived at the end of the gallery Pere Tab-
aret, who had just arrived, eager and
happy, like a bearer of good news as he
was.

His carriage had scarcely stopped before
the gate of the palais de justice before he
was in the court, and rushing towards the
porch. To see him jumping more nimbly
than a fifth rate lawyer’s clerk up the steep
flight of stairs leading to the judge’s office,
you would never believe that he had been
years on the shady side of fifty. Even he
doubted the fact. He did not remember
having passed the dark line : he had
never felt so fresh, so agile, in such spirits ;
he had springs of steel in his limbs.

He crossed the gallery in two jumps, and
burst like a cannon shot into the judge’s
apartment, hustling against the methodical
clerk in the rudest of ways, without even
asking his pardon.

“ Caught I ” he cried, while yet on the
threshold, “ caught, nipped, squeezed,
strung, trapped, locked ! We have got
our man.”

Pere Tabaret, more ‘ Tirauclair’ than
ever, gesticulated with such comical vehe-
mence and such remarkable contortions
that even the long clerk smiled ; for which,
however, he took himself severely to task,
on going to bed that night.

But Daburon, still under the influence
of Noel’s deposition, was shocked at this
apparently unseasonable joy ; although he
felt the safer for it. He looked severely at
Pere Tabaret, saying, —

“ Hush, monsieur ; be decent ; compose
yourself.”

At any other time, the old fellow would
have been frightened at having deserved
such a reprimand. Now it made no im-
pression on him.

“ I can’t be auiet,” he replied ; “ and I am
proud of it. Never has any thing like it
been seen. All that I predicted has been
found. Broken foil, pearl gray gloves
slightly frayed, cigar-holder; nothing is
wanting. You shall have them, monsieur,
and many more like them. I have a little
system of my own, which appears by no
means a bad one. Just see the triumph of
my method of induction, which Gevrol
ridiculed so. I’d give a hundred francs if
he were only here now. But no : my Gev-
rol wants to nab the man with the ear-
rings ; he is capable of doing just that. He

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

83

is a fine fellow, this Gevrol, a famous fel-
low 1 How much do you give him a year
for his skill*? ”

“ Come, my dear Tabaret,” said the
judge, as soon as he could get a word in,
“ be serious, if you can, and let us proceed
regularly.”

“ Pshaw ! ” replied the old fellow, “ what
good will it do V It is a clear case now.
When they bring our man before you, show
him simply the particles taken from the
fingers of the victim side by side with his
torn gloves; and you will overwhelm him.
I wager that he will confess all, hie et nunc ,
— yes, I wager my head against his: al-
though that’s pretty risky ; for he will get
off yet! These milksops on the jury are
just capable of according him extenuating
circumstances. I’d give him extenuating
circumstances. Ah ! these snails destroy
justice ! Why, if all the world were of my
mind, the punishment of these rascals
wouldn’t take such a time 1 The moment
they were captured, that moment they
should be strung up. That’s my opinion.”

Daburon resigned himself to this shower
of words. When the old fellow’s excite-
ment had cooled down a little, he simply
began questioning him. He was even then
at great tVouble to obtain the exact details
of the arrest, — details which might con-
firm the official report of the commissary
of police.

The judge appeared much surprised at
hearing that Albert, at sight of the
warrant, had exclaimed, “ I am lost ! ”

“ That,” muttered he, “ is a terrible
proof against him.”

“ Certainly,” replied Pere Tabaret. “ In
his ordinary state, he would never have
allowed these words to escape him ; which
in fact destroy him. It was because we
arrested him when he was scarcely awake.
He hadn’t been in bed, but was lying in a
troubled sleep, upon a sofa, when we ar-
rived. I took good care to send a fright-
ened servant in in advance, and then to
follow closely upon him myself; because he
was thus demoralized. All my calculations
were made. But, never fear, he will find
a plausible excuse for this fatal exclama-
tion. By the way, I should add that we
found on the floor, near by, last evening’s
‘ Gazette de France ’ all rumpled, which
contained the report of the assassination.
This is the first time that a piece of news in
the papers ever helped to nab a criminal.”

“Yes,” murmured the judge, deep in
thought, — “ves, you are a valuable man,
Tabaret.” Then, louder, he added, “ I am
thoroughly convinced ; for Noel Gerdy has
just this moment left me.”

“ You have seen Noel,” cried the old
fellow.

On the instant all his proud self-satis-
faction disappeared. A cloud of anxiety,
like a veil, spread over his face, and eclipsed
his joy.

“ Noel here,” he repeated ; then timidly
added, “ and does he know ? ”

“Nothing,” replied Daburon. “I had
no need of bringing you in. Besides, had
I not promised absolute secrecy ? ”

“ Ah, that’s all right,” cried Pere Taba-
ret. “ And what do you think of Noel ? ”

“ His is, I am sure, a noble, worthy heart,”
said the magistrate, — “ a nature both strong'
and tender. The sentiments which I heard
him express here, and the genuineness of
which it is impossible to doubt, manifested
an elevation of soul, unhappily, very rare.
Seldom in my life have I met with a man
who so won mv sympathy from the first.
I can well understand one’s pride in be-
ing among his friends.”

“ Just what I said ; he has precisely the
same effect upon every one. I love him as
though he were my own child ; and, what-
ever happens, he is to inherit my entire
fortune : yes, I intend leaving him every
thing. My will is made, and in the hands
of Baron, my notary. There is a legacy,
too, for Madame Gerdy ; but I am going to
scratch that out at once.”

“ Madame Gerdy, Tabaret, will soon be
beyond all need of worldly goods.”

“ How, what do you mean ? Has the
count — ”

“ She is dying, and will hardly last
through the day ; Monsieur Gerdy told me
so himself.”

“ Ah ! heavens ! ” cried the old fellow,
“ what do you tell me ? dying ? Noel will
go distracted ; but no : since she is not his
mother, how can it affect him ? Dying ?
I was so fond of her before this discov-
ery. Poor humanity ! It seems as though
all the accomplices in that great sin are
passing away at the same time ; for I forgot
to tell you, that, just as I was leaving the
Hotel de Commarin, I heard a servant
telling another that the count at the news
of his son’s arrest had fallen in a fit of
apoplexy.”

“ That will be the worst of misfortunes
for young Gerdy.”

“ For Noel?”

“ I had counted upon M. de Commarin’s
testimony to recover for him all that he
so well deserves. The count dead, the
Widow Lerouge dead, Madame Gerdy dy-
ing, or in any event insane, who then can
tell us whether the plan detailed in these
letters was ever carried into execution ? ”

84

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ True,” murmured Pfcre Tabaret ; “ it is
true 1 And I did not see it. What fatali-
ty ! For I am not deceived ; I am certain
that — ”

He did not finish. Daburon’s office door
opened ; and the Count de Commarin him-
self appeared in the flesh, as stately as one
of those old portraits which you might im-
agine frozen in their gilded frames.

The old gentleman signed with his hand ;
and the two servants who had helped him
up as far as the gallery, sustaining him on
either side, retired.

CHAPTER XL

It was the Count de Commarin, or rather
his shadow. His head, usually carried so
high, fell upon his breast ; his figure was
bent ; his eyes had no longer their accus-
tomed fire ; his fair hands trembled. The
extreme disorder of his dress rendered
more striking still the change which had
come over him. In one night, he had
grown twenty years older.

These robust old men resemble great
trees, whose inner wood has crumbled
away, and whose only life is in the bark
without.

They are apparently unshaken, they
seem to set time at defiance ; yet one blast
of wind casts them to the earth. This man,
yesterday so proud of never having bent to
a storm, was now completely prostrated.
The pride of his name had constituted his
entire strength ; that humbled, he seemed
utterly overwhelmed. In him every thing
gave way at once ; all his supports failed
him at the same time. His cold, lifeless
gaze revealed the dull stupor of his
thoughts. He presented such an image of
utter despair that the judge of inquiry
shuddered at the sight, Tabaret looked
frightened, and even the clerk seemed
moved.

“ Constant,” said Monsieur Daburon
quickly, “go with Monsieur Tabaret, and
see if there’s any news at the prefecture.”

The clerk left the room, followed by the
old man, who went away regretfully. The
count had not noticed their presence ; he
paid no attention to their departure.

Daburon offered him a seat, which he
accepted with a sad smile. “ I feel so
weak,” said he ; “ you must excuse my sit-
ting.”

Apologies to an inferior magistrate!
What an advance in civilization, when the
nobility consider themselves subject to the
Jaw, and bow to its decrees! It was far

different when the Duchess of Bouillon
mocked at parliament, when the haughty
nobles that infested the reign of Louis
XIV. treated with the greatest indignity the
counsellor of the chambre d’ardente. All the
world respects justice nowadays ; and an
innocent man need fear but little, even
when defended only by a simple, conscien-
tious judge of inquiry.

“ You are perhaps too unwell, count,”
said the judge, “to give me the explana-
tions I had hoped for.”

“ I am better, thank you,” replied Mon-
sieur de Commarin, “ than I have been since
the terrible blow has fallen upon me.
When I heard of the crime of which my
son is accused, and of his arrest, I was
stunned. I believed myself strong ; I find
myself a poor, weak old man. My ser-
vants thought me dead. Would that I
were. The strength of my constitution,
my physician tells me, was all that saved
me ; but I know that heaven has kept me
alive, that I may drink to the bitter dregs
this cup of humiliation.”

He stopped for a moment, choked by a
flow of blood that rose to his mouth.

The judge of inquiry remained near the
table, not daring to move.

After a few moment’s rest, the count
found relief, and proceeded.

“ Unhappy man that I am ! did I not ex-
pect it ? Every thing comes to light
sooner or later. I am punished for my
great sin, — pride. I thought myself out
of reach of the thunderbolt ; and I have
been the means of drawing down the storm
upon my house. Albert an assassin ! A Vis-
count de Commarin arraigned before a
court of assize ! Ah, monsieur, punish
me, too ; for I alone, and long ago, laid the
foundation of this crime. A race bearing
for fifteen centuries a spotless name closes
with me in infamy.”

Daburon considered the conduct of the
Count de Commarin unpardonable, and
had determined not to spare him.

He had expected to meet a proud,
haughty noble, almost unmanageable ; and
he had resolved to humble his arrogance.

Perhaps the harsh treatment he had re-
ceived of old from the Marquise d’Ar-
langes had given him, unconsciously, a
slight grudge against aristocracy.

He had vaguely thought of certain
rather severe remarks, which were to over-
come the old gentleman, and bring him to
his senses.

But, when he found in his presence a
real penitent, his indignation changed to
profound pity ; and he asked himself how
lie could assuage his grief.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

85

“ Write, monsieur,” continued the count,
with an exultation of which he would not
have been capable ten minutes before, —
“ write my avowal with-holding nothing. I
have no longer need of mercy nor of ten-
derness. What have I to fear now? Is
not my disgrace public ? Must not I,
Count Rheteau de Commarin, appear before
the tribunal, to proclaim the infamy of our
house Y Ah ! all is lost now, even honor
itself. Write, monsieur; my wish is, that
all the world shall know that I am the most
to blame. But they shall also know that
already the punishment has been terrible,
and that there is no new need of this last
and mortal trial.”

The count interrupted himself, to con-
centrate and arrange his memory.

He continued, then, with a firmer voice,
adapting his tone to what he had to say, —

“ When I was of Albert’s age, monsieur,
my parents made me marry, in spite of my
protestations, the noblest and purest of
young girls. I made her the most unhappy
of women. I could not love her. I cher-
ished a most passionate love for a mistress,
who had trusted herself to me, and whom
I had loved for many years. I found her
rich in beauty, purity, and soul. Her
name was Valerie. My heart is dead and
cold in me, monsieur ; but, ah ! when I
pronounce that name, it calls me again to
life. In spite of my marriage, I could not
induce myself to part from her; nor did
she wish it. The idea of a disgraceful sep-
aration was revolting to her; for she loved
me then. Our relations continued.

“ My wife and my mistress became moth-
ers at nearly the same time. This coinci-
dence suggested to me the sad idea of
sacrificing piy legitimate son to his less
fortunate brother. I communicated this
project to Valerie. To my surprise, she
refused it with horror. Already the ma-
ternal instinct had awakened in her ; she
would not be separated from her child. I
have preserved, as a memento of my folly,
the letters which she wrote to me at this
time. I have re-read them only this night.
Ah ! how could I have refused both her argu-
ments and her prayers ? It was because I
was mad. She had the same presentiment
of evil which weighs me down to-day. But
I came to Paris. I had absolute control
over her. I threatened to leave her, never
to see her again. She yielded ; and my
valet and Claudine Lerouge were charged
with this wicked substitution. It is,
therefore, the son of my mistress- who
wears the title of Viscount de Commarin,
and who was arrested but an hour since.”

Daburon had not hoped for a declaration

so clear, and above all so prompt. He
secretly rejoiced for the young advocate,
whose sentiments had so won upon him.

“ So, count,” said he, “ you acknowledge
that Noel Gerdy was the issue of your
legitimate marriage, and that he alone is
entitled to bear your name ? ”

“ Yes, monsieur. Alas ! I was then more
delighted at the success of my project than
I should have been over the most brilliant
victory. I was so intoxicated with the joy of
having my Valerie’s child there, near me,
that I forgot every thing. I had trans-
ferred to him a part of my love for his
mother ; or, rather, I loved him still
better, if that be possible. The thought
that he would bear my name, that he
would inherit all mv wealth, to the detri-
ment of the other, transported me with
delight. The other, I hated ; I could not
even look upon him. I do not recollect
having embraced him twice even.

“ It was on this point alone that Valerie,
who was very good, reproached me se-
verely.

“ One thing alone interfered wit h my
happiness. The Countess de Commarin
adored him whom she believed to be her
son, and always wished to have him on her
knees. I cannot express what I suffered at
seeing my wife cover with kisses and cares-
ses the child of my mistress.

“ But I kept him from her as much as
I could ; and she, poor girl ! not under-
standing what was passing within me, im-
agined that I was doing every thing to keep
her son from loving her. She d-ied, mon-
sieur, with this idea, which poisoned her
last days. She died of sorrow ; but saint-
like, without a complaint, without a mur-
mur, pardon upon her lips and in her
heart.”

Much pressed for time, Daburon, how-
ever, did not dare to interrupt the count,
and ask him briefly for the immediate facts
of the case. He knew that fever alone
gave him this energy, to which a moment
after might succeed the most complete
prostration. He feared, if he stopped him
for an instant, that he would not have
strength enough to begin again.

“ I had not,” continued the count, “ a
tear for her. What had she been in my
life ? A cause of sorrow and remorse.
But the justice of God, in advance of man’s,
took a terrible revenge. One day, I was
warned that Valerie had deceived me, and
had broken with me for a long time. I
could not believe it at first; it seemed to
me impossible, absurd. I would have
sooner doubted myself than her. I had
taken her from a garret, where she had

86

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

worked sixteen hours to earn thirty sous :
she owed every thing to me. Every thing
had gone so smoothly in the past that her
falseness was in some way repugnant to my
reason. I could not induce myself to feel
jealous. However, I inquired into the
matter ; I watched her ; I even descended
to setting a spy upon her. I had been
told the truth. This unhappy girl had a
lover, and had had him for more than ten
years. He was a cavalry officer. He came
to her house with every precaution. Usu-
ally he departed about midnight : but some-
times he came to pass the night, and in
that case left in the early morning.
Being stationed near Paris, he obtained
leaves to visit it ; and, during these leaves,
he remained shut up in her house without
going out at all. One evening, my spies
brought me word that he was there. I
hastened to the house. My presence did
not embarrass her. She received me as
usual, throwing her arms about my neck.
I thought that my spies had deceived me ;
and I was going to tell her all, when I saw
upon the piano a buckskin glove, such as is
worn by soldiers. Not wishing a scene,
and not knowing to what excess my anger
might carry me, I took my departure with-
out a word. I have never seen her since.
She wrote to me. I did not open her let-
ters. She attempted to force her way into
my presence, but in vain : my servants
had orders that they dared not break.”

Could this be the Count de Commarin,
celebrated for his haughty coldness, for his
reserve, so full of disdain, who spoke thus,
who opened his whole life without restric-
tions, without reserve ? And to whom ?
To a stranger.

He was in one of those desperate states,
allied to madness, when all reflection leaves
us, when we must have some outlet to a too
powerful emotion.

What mattered this secret to him, so
courageously carried for so many years ?

He disburdened himself of it, like the
miserable man, who, weighed down by a
too heavy burden, casts it to the earth with-
out caring where it falls, nor how it tempts
the cupidity of the passers by.

“ Nothing,” continued he, — “ no, noth-
ing, can approach to what I then endured.
My very heart-strings were bound up in
that woman. She was like a part of my-
self. In separating myself from her, it
seemed to me that I was tearing away a
part of my own flesh. I cannot tell what
furious passions her memory stirred within
me. I scorned her and longed for her
with equal vehemence. I hated her, and I
loved her. And, to this day, I have re-

tained her detestable image. Nothing can
make me forget her. I have never con-
soled myself for her loss. And that is not
all ; terrible doubts about Albert occurred
tome. Was I really his father? Can you
understand what my punishment was, when
I said to myself, ‘ I have perhaps sacrificed
my own child to that of an utter stranger/
This thought made me hate the youth. To
my great love, there succeeded an uncon-
querable repulsion. How often, in those
times, I struggled against an insane desire
to murder him ! Since then, I have learned
to subdue my aversion ; but I have never
completely mastered it. Albert, monsieur,
has been the best of sons. Nevertheless,
there has always been an icy barrier be-
tween us, which he could never explain.
Often I have been upon the point of pre-
senting myself before the tribunals, of
avowing all, of reclaiming my' legitimate
heir ; but regard for my rank has prevented
me. I recoiled before the scandal. I
feared the ridicule or disgrace that would
attach itself to my name ; and yet I have
not been able to save it from infamy.”

The voice of the old gentleman was
silent, after these words. With a desolate
movement, he buried his face in both hands.
Two great tears, almost immediately dry,
rolled silently down his wrinkled cheeks.

In the mean time, the door of the study
opened half way, and the head of the long
clerk appeared.

Daburon signed to him to enter, and
then addressing Monsieur de Commarin,
said, in a voice that compassion made the
more gentle, —

“ Monsieur, in the eyes of heaven, as in
the eyes of society, you have committed a
great sin; and the results, you .see, are the
most disastrous. This sin it is your duty to
repair as much as lies in your power.”

“ Such is my intention, monsieur, and,
shall I say, my dearest wish.”

“You doubtless understand me,” con-
tinued Daburon.

“ Yes, monsieur,” replied the old man, —
“yes, I understand you.”

“It will doubtless be a consolation for
you,” added the jud.ge, “to learn that
Noel Gerdy is worthy in all respects of the
high position that you are going to restore
to him. You will certainly acknowledge
that his character is of the greater worth,
from his having raised himself by his own
exertions. He is a man of great talent,
better and worthier than any one I know.
You will have a son worthy of his ances-
tors. And no one of your family will re-
gret, monsieur, that the Viscount Albert is
not a Commarin.”

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

87

“No,” replied the count quickly, “ a
Commarin would have died by this time ;
and blood washes all away.”

This remark of the old gentleman set the
judge of inquiry to thinking profoundly.

“Are you then sure,” said he, “of" the
viscount’s guilt? ”

M. de Commarin gave the judge a look
of surprise.

“ I only arrived in Paris yesterday eve-
ning,” he replied ; “ and I am entirely
ignorant of all that has occurred. I only
know that they would not proceed on trifles
against a man of Albert’s rank. If you
have arrested him, it is quite evident that
you have something more than suspicion
against him, — that you possess positive
proofs.”

Daburon bit his lips, and, for a moment,
could not conceal a feeling of displeasure.
He had neglected his usual prudence, had
moved too quickly. He had believed the
count’s mind entirely overthrown ; and
now he had aroused his defiance. All the
skill in the world could not repair such an
unfortunate mistake.

As the result of an examination, from
which much had been expected, all his
plans might be overturned.

A witness on his guard is a witness no
longer to be depended upon ; he trembles
for fear of compromising himself, measures
the weight of the questions, and hesitates
as to his answers.

On the other hand, justice, in the form
of a magistrate, is disposed to doubt every
thing, to imagine every thing, and to sus-
pect all the world.

How far was the count a stranger to the
crime at Jonchere? Evidently, several
days before it, although doubting Albert’s
paternity, he had made great efforts to re-
tain his son in his place. His story showed
that he thought his honor concerned in his
retention.

Was he not a man to suppress, by every
means, an inconvenient witness ? Thus
reasoned Monsieur Daburon.

And yet he could not clearly see how
the Count de Commarin’s interests and his
restless uncertainty were concerned in the
matter. His whole life opposed it.

“ Monsieur,” he began again more stern-
ly, “ when were you informed of the dis-
covery of your secret ? ”

“ Last evening, by Albert himself. He
spoke to me of this sad story, and of a
deed which I now seek in vain to explain,
unless — ”

The count stopped short, as if his rea-
son had been struck by the improbability
of the supposition which he had formed.

“ Unless ? — ” inquired the magistrate
quickly.

“ Monsieur,” said the count, without re-
plying directly, “ Albert will be a hero, if
he be not the criminal.”

“ Ah ! ” said the magistrate quickly,
“ have you, then, reason to think him inno-
cent? ”

Daburon’s spite was so plainly visible in
the tone of his words that Monsieur de
Commarin could and ought to have seen
the appearance of a wicked intention. He
started, evidently offended, and righted
himself by saying, —

“ I am no more a witness now to dis-
charge than I was a moment ago to con-
demn. I desire only to make justice clear,
in accordance with my duty.”

“ Confound it,” said Daburon to himself,
“ here I have offended him again ! Is this
the way to do things, making mistake
after mistake ? ”

“ The facts are these,” said the count.
“ Yesterday, after having spoken to me of
these cursed letters, Albert, began to set a
trap to discover the truth, — for he still
had doubts, Noel Gerdy not having ob-
tained the complete correspondence. An
animated discussion arose between us.
He declared his resolution to give way to
Noel. I, on the other hand, was re-
solved to compromise, cost what it might.
Albert dared to oppose me. All my efforts
to convert him to my views were in vain.
Vainly I tried to touch those cords in his
breast which I had supposed the most sen-
sitive. He firmly repeated his intention to
retire in spite of me, declaring himself sat-
isfied, if I would consent to allow him a
modest competence. I again attempted to
shake him, by showing him that his mar-
riage, so ardently looked forward to for two
years, would be broken off by this blow.
He replied that he felt sure of the constancy
of his fiancee, Mademoiselle d’Arlanges.”

This name fell like a thunderbolt upon
the cars of the judge of inquiry. He fell
back in his chair.

Feeling that he was turning crimson, he
took, at a venture, from his table a large
bundle of papers, and, to hide his emotion,
raised it to his face, as if he was trying to
decipher an illegible word.

He began to understand the difficult
duty with which he was charged. He
seemed troubled like a child, having neith-
er his usual calmness nor foresight. He
felt that he might commit the most serious
blunder. Why had he undertaken this in-
quiry ? Could he keep himself a free
arbiter ? Did he think his will would be
impartial ?

88

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

Gladly would he have turned over to an-
other the further examination of the count ;
but could he ? His conscience told him
that this would be another blunder. He
renewed, then, the painful examination.

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ the sentiments
expressed by the viscount are very fine,
without doubt ; but did he not speak to
you of the Widow Lerouge ? ”

“ Yes,” replied the count, who appeared
suddenly to brighten, as by the remem-
brance of some unnoticed circumstances, —
“ yes, certainly.”

“ He might have shown you that the
testimony of this woman would render a
struggle with M. Gerdy impossible.”

“ Precisely, monsieur ; and, aside from
the question of duty, it was upon that that
he based his refusal to follow my wishes.”

“ It will be necessary, count, for you to
repeat to me very exactly all that passed
between the viscount and yourself. Ap-
peal, then, I beseech you, to your memory,
and strive to repeat his words as nearly as
possible.”

Monsieur de Commarin obeyed without
much difficulty. For a moment, a salutary
reaction had worked upon him. His blood,
excited by the persistence of the examina-
tion, renewed its accustomed course. His
brain redeemed itself.

The scene of last evening was admira-
bly presented to his memory, even to the
most minute details. The sound of Albert’s
words were again in his ears ; he saw again
his expressive gestures.

As his story advanced, brilliant with
clearness and precision, Daburon’s convic-
tion was confirmed.

The judge turned against Albert precise-
ly what had the day before won the count’s
admiration.

“ What wonderful acting ! ” thought he.
“ Tabaret is decidedly possessed of second
sight. To his inconceivable boldness, this
young man joins an infernal cleverness.
The genius of crime itself inspires him.
It is a miracle that we have been able to
unmask him. How well every thing was
foreseen and arranged ! How marvelous-
ly this scene with his father was brought
about, in order to bring doubt in case°of
discovery ! There is not a sentence which
lacks a purpose, which does not tend to
ward off suspicion. What refinement of
•execution ! What over-anxious care
:for details ! Nothing failed him, not even
■the great devotion of his fiancee. Had he
:really informed Claire ? Probably I might
ibe sure of this ; but I should have to re-
turn to her, to again speak to her. Poor
child 1 to love such a man ! But he will

now appear before her in his true colors.
This discussion, too, with the count was
his plank of safety. It committed him to
nothing, and gained time. He would of
course raise objections, since they would
only end by binding himself the more firmly
in his father’s heart. He could thus make
a merit of his compliance, and would ask
a reward for his helplessness. And, when
Noel should return to the charge, he would
find against him the count, who would
boldly deny every thing, politely refuse
him ; and he would, of course, be driven
out as an impostor and forger.”

It was a strange coincidence, but yet
easily explained, that M. de Commarin,
while telling his story, arrived precisely at
the same ideas with the judge, at conclu-
sions almost identical.

In fact, why this persistence on the sub-
ject of Claudine ? He remembered plain-
ly, that, in his anger, he had said to his
son, “ Mankind is not in the habit of doing
such fine actions for its own satisfaction.”
This great disinterestedness now explained
itself.

“ I thank you, monsieur,” said Daburon :
“I will say nothing positive; but Justice
has weighty reasons to believe that, in the
scene which you have just reported to me,
the Viscount Albert played a part previous-
ly arranged.”

“ And well arranged,” murmured the
count ; “ for he deceived me, me 1 ”

He was interrupted by the entrance of
Noel, who carried a shagreen portfolio,
ornamented with black figures, under his
arm.

The advocate bowed to the old gentle-
man, who in’ his turn arose and retired
politely to the end of the room.

“ Monsieur,” said Noel, in an undertone
to the judge, “ you will find all the letters
in this portfolio. I must ask permission' to
leave you at once, as Madame Gerdy’s con-
dition grows hourly more alarming.”

Noel had raised his voice a little, in pro-
nouncing these last words ; and the count
heard them. He started, and needed great
effort to restrain the question which leaped
from his heart into his mouth.

“ You must give me a moment, my dear
fellow,” said the judge.

Daburon then quitted his chair, and,
taking the advocate by the hand, led him
to the count.

“Monsieur de Commarin,” said he, “I
have the honor of presenting to you M. Noel
Gerdy.”

M. de Commarin was probably expect-
ing some scene of this kind; for not a
muscle of his face moved : he remained per-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

89

fectly calm. Noel, on his side, was like a
man who had received a blow on the head ;
he staggered, and was obliged to seek sup-
port from the back of a chair.

Then these two, father and son, stood
face to face, apparently deep in thought,
in reality examining one another with dark
distrust, each striving to gather something
of the other’s thought.

Daburon had hoped much from this coup
de theatre , which he had planned since the
count’s arrival. He had expected to bring
about, by this abrupt presentation, an
intensely pathetic scene, which would not
give his clients time for reflection. The
count would open his arms : Noel would
throw himself into them ; and this reconcil-
iation would only await the sanction of the
tribunals, to be complete.

The coldness of one, the embarrassment
of the other, disconcerted his plans. He
believed a more pressing intervention
necessary.

“ Count,” said he reproachfully, “ remem-
ber that Monsieur Gerdy is your legitimate
son.”

M. de Commarin made no reply ; to
judge from his lack of emotion, he had not
heard.

Then Noel, summoning all his courage,
ventured to speak first, —

“ Monsieur,” he stammered, “ I only
wish — ”

“ You may call me your father,” inter-
rupted the old man, in a tone which cer-
tainly had nothing of emotion or tenderness
in it. Then addressing the judge, —

“ Can I be of any further use ? ” he
asked.

“ Only to hear your deposition read,”
replied Daburon, “ and to sign it, if you
find it taken down correctly. You may
proceed, Constant,” he added.

The. long clerk made a half turn in his
chair, and commenced. He had a peculiar
way of sputtering over what he had
scrawled. He read very quickly, all at
one dash, without paying attention to
periods, commas, questions, or replies, as
long as his breath lasted. When he could
go on no longer, he took a breath, and went
on as before. Unconsciously, he reminded
you of those divers, who npw and then
raise their heads above water,' obtain a sup-
ply of air, and' disappear again. Noel
was the only one to listen attentively to
the reading, which was to unpractised ears
unintelligible. It apprised him of things
which it was important for him to know.
At last Constant pronounced the formula,
en foi de quoi , &c., which end all official
reports in France.

He handed the pen to the count, who
signed without hesitation. The old gentle-
man then turned towards Noel.

“ I am not very strong,” he said ; “ you
must, therefore, my son,” (this word was
emphasized) “ help your father to his car-
riage.”

The young advocate advanced eagerly.
His face brightened, while he passed the
count’s arm through his own.

When they were gone, Daburon could
not resist an impulse of curiosity. He
hastened to the door, which he opened ;
and, keeping his body ki the background,
that he might not himself be seen, he ex-
tended his head, examining the gallery
with a glance.

The count and Noel had not yet reached
the end. They were going slowly. The
count seemed to drag heavily and pain-
fully along ; the advocate took short steps,
bending lightly on the side towards the
count; and all his movements were
marked with the greatest solicitude. The
judge retained his position until they were
lost to view by a turn in the gallery.
Then he went back to his place, heaving a
deep sigh.

“ At least,” said he, “ I have helped to
make one happy person. The day will not
be utterly wasted.”

But he had no time to give way to such
thoughts, the hours flew by so quickly.
He had to examine Albert as soon as pos-
sible; and he had still to receive the de-
position of many of the servants of the
Count de Commarin’s house, and to re-
ceive the report of the commissary of
police charged with the arrest.

The above-named domestics, who had
waited their turn a long while, were with-
out delay brought in, one after the other.

They had but little information to give ;
but there were as many new charges as
there were witnesses. It was easy to see
that all believed their master guilty.

Albert’s conduct since the beginning of
this fatal week, his least words, his most
insignificant movements, were reported,
commented upon, and explained.

The man who lives in the midst of thirty
servants is like an insect in a glass box
under the magnifying glass of a naturalist.
No one of his acts escape attention;
scarcely can he have a secret ; and, if they
cannot divine what it is, they at least know
he has one. From morning until night, he
is the point of observation for thirty pairs
of eyes, interested in studying the slight-
est change in his face.

The judge had, therefore, an abundance
of frivolous details ; which at the time they

90

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

occurred meant nothing, but the most
trifling of which seemed all at once to the
count to become a matter of life and death.

By combining these depositions, reconcil-
ing them, and putting them in order,
Daburon could follow his prisoner hour by
hour to his going out on Sunday morning.

On that Sunday morning, the viscount
had given orders that all visitors should be
informed that he had gone into the coun-
try. From that moment, the whole house-
hold perceived that something had gone
wrong, and annoyed him.

He did not leave his study on that day,
but had had his dinner brought to him.
He eat very little, — only some soup, and a
bit of fish with white wines. While eat-
ing, he had said to Monsieur Contois, the
butler, “ Remind the cook to spice this
sauce a little more, in future,” and then
added in a low tone, “ Ah ? to what pur-
pose ? ” In the evening he dismissed the ser-
vants from all duties, saying, “ Go, and
amuse yourselves.” He expressly warned
them not to enter his room until he rang.-

On Monday, he did not rise until noon,
although usually an early riser. He com-
plained of a violent headache, and of weak-
ness. He took, however, a cup of tea. He
ordered out his coupe but almost immedi-
ately countermanded the order. His valet
de chambre, Lubin, heard him say, “It is
too late to hesitate ; ” and a few moments
after, “ I must finish it.” Shortly after-
wards, he began writing.

Lubin had been instructed to carry a let-
ter to Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlanges, with
orders to deliver it to herself or to Mad-
emoiselle Smith, the governess only. A sec-
ond letter, with two checks of a thousand
francs, were intrusted to Joseph, to be car-
ried to the club. Joseph no longer remem-
bered the person to whom it was ad-
dressed : but it was not a titled name.

That evening, Albert took only, a little
soup, and remained shut up in his room.
He was up early on Tuesday. He walked
up and down the house, like a soul in pain,
or like one who awaited with impatience
something which had not arrived. Upon
his going into the garden, the gardener
asked his advice concerning a la\tfn. He
replied, “ You may consult the count upon
his return.”

He breakfasted precisely as on the day
before. About one o’clock, he went down
to the stables, and, with an air of sadness,
he caressed his favorite mare, Norma.
Stroking her neck, he said, “ Poor-creature !
poor old girl ! ”

At three o’clock, a messenger arrived
with a letter. The viscount took it, and

J opened it hastily. He was then opposite
the flower garden. Two footmen heard
him distinctly say, “ She cannot resist.”
He entered the house, and burned the let-
ter in the large fire-place in the entry.

As he was sitting down to dinner, at six
o’clock, two of his friends, Monsieur de
Courtivois and the Marquis of Chouze,
insisted upon seeing him, in spite of all
orders. They would not be refused.
These gentlemen were anxious to carry
him away to a party of pleasure ; but
he refused, saying that he had a very im-
portant appointment.

At dinner, he ate a little more than on
the former days. He asked the butler also
for a bottle of Chateau Lafitte, which he
drank entirely. While taking his coffee,
he smoked a cigar in the dining-room, con-
trary to the rules of the house. At half-
past seven, according to Joseph and the
two footmen, or at eight according to the
porter and Lubin, the viscount went out
on foot, taking with him an umbrella. He
returned at two o’clock in the morning,
and dismissed at once his valet (le chambre ,
whose duty it was to remain up for him.

Wednesday, on entering the viscount’s
room, the valet de chambre was struck with
the condition in which he found his master’s
clothing. It was wet, and stained with
mud ; the pants were torn. He hazarded
a remark upon them. Albert replied, in a
furious manner, “ Throw the old things in
a corner, ready to be given away.”

He appeared to be much better that day.
He breakfasted with a good appetite ; and
the butler perceived that he was in excel-
lent spirits. He passed the afternoon in
the library, and burned a pile of papers.

Thursday, he seemed again to suffer much.
He seemed to regret not being able to see
the count. That evening, after his inter-
view with his father, he went to his room
in a pitiable condition. Lubin wanted to
go for the doctor : he would not allow it,
saying, at the same time, there was nothing
the matter with him.

Such was the substance of twenty large
pages, which the long clerk had written
without once turning his head to look at
the witnesses who passed by in their fine
livery.

This testimony Daburon managed to
obtain inside of two hours. Being well
aware of the importance of their testimony,
all these servants were very voluble. The
difficulty was, to stop them when they were
once started. And yet, from all they said,
it appeared that Albert was a very good
master, — easily served, kind and polite to
his servants. .Wonderful to relate 1 there

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

91

■were found only three among them all who
did not appear perfectly delighted at the
misfortune which had befallen the family.
Two were seriously distressed. Lubin, al-
though he had been an object of especial
kindness, was not one of these last.

The turn of the commissary of police
had now come. In a few words, he gave
an account of the arrest, already described
by Pere Tabaret. He did not forget to
mark the one word “ Lost,” which had es-
caped Albert; to his mind, it was a confes-
sion. He then delivered all the articles
seized in the Viscount de Commarin’s
room.

The judge of inquiry examined carefully
all these articles, and compared them
closely with the scraps of evidence gathered
at Jonchere. He appeared now, more than
ever, satisfied with his course.

He personally placed all the material
proofs upon the table, and, to hide them,
threw over them three or four of those
large sheets of paper, which are used by
shirt-makers for covers.

The day was far advanced ; and Dabu-
ron had no more than sufficient time to
examine the prisoner before night. Why
should he hesitate now? He had in his
hands more proofs than would suffice to
summon ten men before the court of assize,
and send them from thence to Roquette.
He was fighting with arms so immeasura-
bly superior, that, unless through some
error of his own, Albert would scarcely
dream of defending himself; and yet, at
this moment of so much solemnity to him-
self, he seemed to falter. Was his will
enfeebled ? Would he abandon his resolu-
tion ?

He now, for the first time, remembered
that he had tasted nothing since morning ;
and he sent hastily for a bottle of wine,
and some biscuits. It was not strength,
however, that the judge needed; it was
courage. All the time that he was drink-
ing, Ins thoughts would keep repeating this
strange sentence, “I am going to appear
before the Viscount de Commarin.” At
any other moment, he would have laughed
at this flight of his thoughts ; but, at this
moment, lie seemed to see the will of Provi-
dence.

“ So be it,” said he ; “ this is my punish-
ment.”

And immediately he gave the necessary
orders for the Viscount Albert to be
brought before him.

CHAPTER XII.

There was little difference in Albert’s
state of mind at home and in the seclusion
of the prison.

Snatched away from those painful dreams
by the* rude voice of the commissary, say-
ing, “ In the name of the law 1 arrest you,”
his spirit, completely overcome, was a long
time in recovering its equilibrium. Every
thing that followed his arrest appeared to
float indistinctly in a thick mist, like the
fairy scenes at the theatre behind a quad-
ruple gauze curtain.

To their questions he replied, without
hearing himself speak. Two agents took
his arms, and helped him down the stairs
from the house. He could not have walked
down alone. His limbs, which bent be-
neath him, could not have borne him. One
thing alone he heard, a servant saying that
the count had been struck with apoplexy ;
but even that he soon forgot.

They raised him into the coach, which
stood in the court, at the foot of the steps,
rather ashamed of finding itself in such a
place ; and they placed him upon the back
seat. Two agents took their seats in front
of him ; while a third mounted the box by
the side of the driver. During the drive,
he did not at all realize his situation. He
lay in the dirty, greasy carriage motion-
less. His body, which followed every jolt
of the carriage, wofully in need of springs,
rolled from one side to the other ; and his
head fell to and fro on his shoulders, as if
the muscles of his neck were broken. He
thought of the Widow Lerouge. He re-
called her as she ivas when he went with
his father to Jonchere. It was in the
spring; and the May-flowers sweetened
the way. The old woman, in a white head-
dress, stood at her garden gate : she spoke
with a suppliant air. The count listened
to her with a stern glance ; then, taking
some money from his pocket-book, he gave
it to her.

On reaching the jail, they got out of the
carriage as they had entered it.

During the formalities of the jail-book,
in the dark, offensive record office, reply-
ing mechanically to every thing, he gave
himself up with delight to recollections of
Claire. He went back to the time of their
first love, when he doubted ivhether he
should ever have the happiness of being
loved by her in return, and to Madame
Goello’s house, where they had first ex-
changed their vows.

This old lady had a certain celebrated
lover’s retreat, upon the left bank of the
Seine, of the most peculiar description.

92

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

Upon all the furniture, and even upon the
mantel, were placed a dozen or fifteen
stuffed dogs, of various kinds, which togeth-
er or successively had helped to cheer the
old maid’s lonely hours. She loved to re-
late the stories of these pets, whose affec-
tions had never failed her. Tney were, too,
such grotesque, horrible things. One espe-
cially, outrageously stuffed, seemed ready
to burst. How many times he had laughed
at it with Claire until the tears came !

They began searching him then. This
crowning humiliation, when rough hands
passed all over his body, brought him
somewhat to himself, and roused his anger.
But it was soon finished ; and they took
him through the dark corridors, whose
pavements were filthy and slippery. They
opened a door, and pushed him into a sort
of little cell. He heard behind him the
sound of clashing bolts, and creaking locks.

He was a prisoner, and, in accordance
with special orders, in solitary confinement.
Immediately he felt a marked sensation of
comfort. He was alone.

No more stifled whispers, harsh voices,
dreadful questions, filled his ears. A pro-
found silence, giving the idea of nothing-
ness, formed about him. It seemed to him
that he had never before escaped from so-
ciety ; and he rejoiced at it. He would
have felt relieved, had this even been a
tomb. His body, as well as his mind, was
weighed down with weariness. He was
going to sit down, when he perceived a
mean couch, at the right, in front of the
grated window, which let in the little light
there was. This bed gave him as much
pleasure as a plank would a drowning man.
He threw himself upon it, and stretched
himself with delight ; but he felt chilled.
He found a coarse woollen coverlid, and,
wrapping it about him, was soon sound
asleep.

In the corridor, two agents of the safety
police, one still young, the other already
gray, applied alternately their eyes and
ears to the peep-hole in the door.

“ What a fellow he is 1 ” murmured the
younger officer. “If a man has no more
nerve than that, he ought to be pretty hon-
est. He will be wild the morning of his
execution, eh, Balan Y ”

“ That depends,” — replied the older.
“We must wait and see. Lecoq told me
that he was a terrible rascal.”

“ Ah ! see how the fellow arranges his
bed, and lies down. Can he be going to
sleep ? That’s good ! It’s the first time I
ever saw such a thing.”

“It’s because, comrade, that you have
only had dealings with the smaller rogues.

All great rascals — and I have had to do
with more than one — are of this sort. At
the moment of arrest, good-night every one ;
their heart fails them: but they recover
themselves next day.”

“ Upon my word, if he hasn’t gone to
sleep ! What a joke ! ”

“ I tell you, my friend,” added the old
man, pointedly, “ that nothing is more nat-
ural. I am sure that, since the blow was
struck, this young fellow has hardly lived :
his body has been all on fire. Now he
knows that his secret is out ; and that
quiets him. ”

“ Ha, ha ! you are joking : you say that
that quiets him ? ”

“ Certainly. There is no greater punish-
ment, remember, than anxiety ; any thing
is preferable. If you have only got ten
thousand livres income, I will show you a
way to prove this. Go to Hamburg and
risk your entire fortune on one chance at
rouge et noir. Tell me, afterwards, what
your feelings were while the ball was roll-
ing. It is, observe, as though they were
tearing your brain with pincers, as if
they were pouring molten lead into your
bones, instead of marrow. This dread of
detection is so strong, that, when every
thing is lost, they are content ; they feel re-
lieved ; they breathe again ; they say to
themselves, ‘ Ah, it is finished at last.’
They are ruined, demolished, overthrown ;
but it is ended.”

“ Truly, Balan, one would think that
you yourself had had just such an experi-
ence.”

“ Alas ! ” sighed the officer, “ it is to my love
for the queen of spades, my unhappy love,
that you owe the honor of looking through
this peep-hole in my company. But this
fellow has two hours for his nap ; do not
lose sight of him : I am going to smoke a
cigarette in the court.”

Albert slept four hours. On awaking,
his head seemed clearer than it had been
any time since his interview with Noel.
It was a terrible moment for him, when,
for the first time, he looked his situation
calmly in the face.

“ By this time,” said he, “ he has taken
measures to prevent his being ousted.”

He longed to see some one, — to speak,
to have questions asked, to explain. He
felt a desire to cry out.

“ But what good would it do,” he said to
himself, “ even if they came ? ”

He looked for his watch, to see what
time it was, and found that they had taken
it away. This moved him deeply : they
were treating him like the most abandoned
of villains. He felt in his pockets : they

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

93

had all been carefully emptied. He thought
now of his appearance ; and, throwing him-
self upon the couch, he repaired as much
as possible the disorder of his toilet. He
ut his clothes in order, and dusted them ;
e straightened his collar, and re-tied his
cravat. Turning, then, a little water on
his handkerchief, he passed it over his face,
rubbing his eyes, the lids of which were
smarting. Then he endeavored to smooth
his beard and hair. He had no idea that
four lynx eyes were fixed upon him all the
time.

“ Good ! ” murmured the young officer :
“ see how our cock raises his crest and
smooths his feathers ! ”

“ I tell you/’ put in Balan, “ he is simply
benumbed. Hush! he is speaking, I be-
lieve.”

But they neither surprised one of those
disordered gestures nor one of those in-
coherent speeches, which almost always es-
cape from the feeble when excited by fears,
or from the independent who believe their
secrets secure. One word alone, “ honor,”
reached the ears of the two spies.

“ These rascals of rank, ’’grumbled Balan,
“ always have this word in their mouths.
That which they most fear is the opinion of
some dozen friends, and several thousand
strangers, who read the ‘Journal des
Tribunaux.’ They care nothing about
their own heads.”

When the gendarmes came to con-
duct Albert to the examination, they found
him seated on the side of his bed, his feet
ressed against the iron bar, his elbows on
is knees, and his head buried in his
hands. He rose, as they entered, and took
a few steps towards them ; but his throat
was so dry that he was scarcely able to
speak. He asked for a few moments’ rest ;
and, turning towards the little table, he
filled and drank two large glasses of water
in succession.

“ I am ready,” he then said.

And, with a firm step, he followed the
gendarmes along the passage which led to
the court.

Daburon was now in anguish. He
walked furiously up and down his office,
awaiting his prisoner. Again, and for the
twentieth time since morning, he regretted
his having engaged in the business.

“ Curse on this absurd point of honor,
which I have obeyed,” he exclaimed. “ I
have attempted to reassure myself by the
aid of sophisms. I have done wrong in not
withdrawing. Nothing in the world can
change my feelings against the young
man.° I hate him. I am his judge ; and
it is no less than true, that I have longed

to assassinate him. I once aimed at him
with my revolver. Why did I not pull the
trigger ? Do I know why ? What power
held my finger, when an almost insensible
pressure would have sufficed to strike the
blow ? I cannot say. Why is not he the
judge, and I the assassin ? If the intention
was as punishable as the deed, my neck
would suffer. And is it under such condi-
tions that I dare examine him ? ”

Passing before the door, he heard the
heavy step of the gendarmes in the gal-
lery.

“ It is he,” he said aloud ; and then has-
tily took a seat behind the table, bending
into the shade of the portfolio, as though
striving to hide himself. If the long clerk
had had eyes, he would have noticed the
singular spectacle of a judge, more anx-
ious than the prisoner. But he was blind
to it ; and, at this moment, he saw only an
error of fifteen centimes, which had slipped
into his accounts, and which he was una-
ble to rectify.

Albert entered the judge’s office erect.
His features bore traces of great fatigue
and of long wakefulness. He was very pale ;
but his eyes were clear and sparkling.

The usual questions which open such
examinations gave Daburon time to recov-
er himself. Fortunately he had found
time in the morning to prepare a plan,
which he had now simply to follow.

“ You are not ignorant, monsieur,” he
commenced in a tone of perfect politeness,
“ that you have no right to the name you
bear ? ”

“ I know, monsieur,” replied Albert,
“ that I am the natural son of Monsieur de
Commarin. I know further that my father
would be unable to recognize me, if he
wished ; since I was born during his mar-
riage.”

“ What were your feelings upon learning
this ? ”

“ I should speak falsely, monsieur, if I
said I did not feel very bitterly. When
one is in the high position I occupied, the
fall is terrible. However, I have never for
a moment thought of contesting Noel
Gerdy’s rights. I have always purposed,
and still purpose, to yield. I have so in-
formed M. de Commarin.”

Daburon listened to this reply ; and it
only strengthened his suspicions. Did it
not enter into the line of defence which
the prisoner had marked out for himself ?
It was his duty now to seek some way of
breaking up this defence, in which the
prisoner meant to shut himself up as in a
shell.

“ You could only oppose,” continued the

94

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

judge, “ a plea of non recevoir to Monsieur
Gerdy. You had, indeed, on your side, the
count, and your mother; but Gerdy had,
on his side, testimony which it would have
been necessary to suppress, — that of the
Widow Lerouge.”

“ I have never denied it, monsieur.”

“ Now,” continued the judge, seeking to
hide the look which he fastened upon
Albert, “Justice supposes that, to do away
with the only existing proofs, you have-
assassinated the Widow Lerouge ! ”

This terrible accusation, terribly em-
phasized, caused no change in Albert’s
features. He kept the same firm bearing,
without braggadocio. Not a wrinkle ap-
peared on his face.

“ Before God,” he answered, “ and by all
that is most sacred on earth, I swear to you,
monsieur, that I am innocent 1 I have
been to this moment a close prisoner, with-
out communication with the outer world,
reduced consequently to the most absolute
helplessness. It is through your probity
that I hope to demonstrate my innocence.”

“ What an actor ! ” thought the judge.
“ Can crime give such force ? ”

He ran over the papers, reading certain
passages of the preceding depositions,
turning down the corners of certain pages
which contained important information.
Then suddenly he continued, —

“ When you were arrested, you cried
out, ‘ I am lost ; ’ what did you mean by
that?”

“ Monsieur,” replied Albert, “ I re-
member having uttered those words. When
I knew of what crime they accused me, I
was overwhelmed with consternation. My
spirit was, as it were, illuminated by a
glimpse of futurity. In less than a mo-
ment, I perceived all the horrors of my situ-
ation. I saw the weight of the accusation,
its probability, and the difficulties I should
have in defending myself. A voice cried
out to me, ‘ Who, then, is most interested in
Claudine’s death Y ’ And the knowledge
of my imminent peril forced from me the
exclamation you speak of.”

His explanation was more than plausible,
was possible, and even probable. It had
the advantage, too, of anticipating the
axiom, —

Search out the one whom the crime will
benefit ! Tabaret had spoken truly, when
he said that they had not taken an unskil-
ful prisoner.

Daburon admired Albert’s presence of
mind, and the resources of his perverse
imagination.

“You do, indeed,” continued the judge,
“ appear to have had the most serious in-

terest in this death. You see we are very
sure that robbery was not the object of the
crime. The things thrown into the Seine
have been recovered. We know, also,
that all the papers were burnt. Could
they compromise any one but yourself ? If
you know of any one, speak.”

“ What can I answer, monsieur ? Noth-
ing.”

“ Have you gone often to this woman’s
house ? ”

“ Three or four times, with my father.”

“ One of your coachmen pretends to
have driven you there at least ten times.”

“ The man is mistaken. But what mat-
ters the number of visits ? ”

“ Do you recollect the arrangement of
the rooms ? Can you describe them ? ”

“ Perfectly, monsieur : there were two.
Claudine slept in the back room.”

“ It is understood that you were not un-
known to the Widow Lerouge. If you had
knocked some evening at her door, do you
think she would have opened it for you ? ”

“ Certainly, monsieur, and eagerly.”

“ You have been unwell these last few
days ? ”

“ Very unwell; yes, monsieur, my body
bent under the weight of a burden
too great for my strength. I have not,
however, lost my courage.”

“ Why did you forbid your valet de
cliambre , Lubin, to call the doctor ? ”

“ Ah, monsieur, how could the doctor
reach my disease? All his science could
not make me the legitimate son of the Count
de Commarin.”

“ Singular remarks made by you were
overheard. You seemed to be no longer
interested in any thing about the house.
You destroyed papers and letters.”

“ I had decided to leave the house, mon-
sieur. My resolution explains all that.”

To the judge’s questions, Albert replied
promptly, without the least embarrassment,
and in a confident tone. His voice, of a
sympathetic calibre, did not tremble. It
concealed no emotion ; it retained its pure
and vibrating sound.

Daburon believed it wise to suspend the
examination. With an adversary of this
strength, he was evidently pursuing a false
course. To proceed in detail was folly ; .
they neither intimidated him nor made
him break through his reserve.

“Monsieur,” said the judge abruptly,

“ tell me exactly, I beseech you, how you
passed your time last Tuesday evening,
from six o’clock until midnight ? ”

For the first time, Albert seemed discon-
certed. His eyes, which had, up to this
time, been fixed upon the judge, wandered.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

95

“ Daring Tuesday evening,” he stam-
mered, repeating the phrase to gain time.

“ I have hit it,” thought the judge, start-
ing with joy, and then added aloud, “ yes,
from six o’clock until midnight.”

. “ I am afraid, monsieur,” answered
Albert, “ it will be difficult for me to satisfy
you. I haven’t a very good memory.”

“ Oh, don’t tell me that ! ” interrupted
the, judge. “If I had asked what you
were doing three months ago, on a certain
evening, and at a certain hour, I could
account for your hesitation ; but this is
about Tuesday, and it is now Friday.
Moreover, this day, so close, was the last
of the carnival ; it was Shrove Tuesday.
That circumstance ought to help your mem-
ory.”

“ That evening, I was walking,” mur-
mured Albert.

“ Now,” continued the judge, “ where
did you dine ? ”

“ At home, as usual.”

“ No, not as usual. At the end of your
meal, you asked for a bottle of Bourdeaux,
which you emptied. You doubtless had
need of some extra excitement for your
subsequent plans.”

“I had no plans,” replied the prisoner
with a very evident uneasiness.

“ You deceive yourself. Two friends
came to seek you. You replied to them,
before sitting down to dinner, that you had
a very important engagement.”

“ That was only a polite way of getting
rid of them.”

“ Why ? ”

“ Can you not understand, monsieur ? I
was resigned, but not comforted. I was
learning to get accustomed to the terrible
blow. Does not one seek solitude in the
great crises of one’s life ? ”

“ The prosecution supposes that you
wished to be left alone, that you might go
to Jonchere. During the day, you said,

‘ She cannot resist me.’ Of whom were
you speaking ? ”

“ Of some one to whom I had written
the evening before, and who had replied
to me. I spoke the words, with her letter
still in my hands.”

“ This letter was, then, from a woman ? ”

“ Yes.”

“ What have you done with it? ”

“ I burned it.”

“ This precaution would seem to imply
that you considered it as compromising.”

“ Not at all, monsieur ; it treated entirely
of private matters.”

Daburon was sure that this letter came
from Mademoiselle d’Arlanges. Should
he nevertheless ask it, and compel himself

to again pronounce this name of Claire, so
terrible to him ? He ventured to do so,
hiding his face behind a paper, so that the
prisoner did not detect his emotion.

“ From whom did this letter come ? ” he
asked.

“ From one whom I cannot name.”

“Monsieur,” said the judge, addressing
him severely, “ I will not conceal from you
that your position is very dangerous. Do
not aggravate it by this culpable reticence.
You are here to tell every thing, mon-
sieur.”

“ My affairs alone, not those of others.”

Albert gave this last answer in a dry tone.
He was giddy, flurried, exasperated, by the
prying and irritating mode of the examina-
tion, which gave him no time to breathe.
The judge’s questions fell upon him more
thickly than the blows of the blacksmith’s
hammer upon the red hot iron which he is
anxious to form before it cools.

The apparent rebellion of his prisoner
troubled Daburon seriously. He was fur-
ther extremely surprised to find the dis-
cernment of the old detective at fault ;
just as though Tabaret were infallible.
Tabaret had predicted an unexceptionable
alibi ; and this alibi was not forthcoming.
Why ? Had this subtle villain something
better than that ? What ruse had he at the
bottom of his bag ? Doubtless he kept in
reserve some unforeseen stroke, perhaps
irresistible.

“ Gently,” thought the judge. “ I have
not got him yet.” Then he quickly said
aloud, —

“ Go on. After dinner, what did vou
do?”

“ I went out for a walk.”

“ Not immediately. The bottle drank,
you smoked in the dining room, which was
so unusual as to be noticed. What kind
of cigars do. you usually smoke ? ”

“ Trabucos.”

“ Do you not use a cigar-holder, to keep
your lips from contact with the tobacco ? ”

“ Yes, monsieur,” replied Albert, much
surprised at this series of questions.

“ What time did you go out? ”

“ About eight o’clock.”

“ Did you carry an umbrella ? ”

“Yes.”

“ Where did you go ? ”

“ I walked about the streets.”

“ Alone, without an object, all the even-
ing ? ”

“ Yes, monsieur.”

“ Now trace out your wanderings for me
exactly.”

“ Ah, monsieur, that is very difficult for
me 1 I went out simply to walk, to obtain

96

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

exercise, to drive away the torpor which
had depressed me for three days. I don’t
know whether you can picture to yourself
my exact condition. I had lost my head.
I moved about at hazard along the quays.
I wandered through the streets, — ”

“ All that is very improbable,” inter-
rupted the judge. Daburon, however,
knew that it was possible. Had not he
himself one night in a race of folly trav-
ersed all Paris ? What reply could he have
made, if some one had asked him next
morning where he had gone, except that
he had not paid attention, and did not
know ? But he had forgotten this ; and
his anguish, too, had much less reason for
it than Albert ’s.

The inquiry commenced, he had caught
the fever of investigation. He renewed
his desire for the struggle, his passion for
his calling.

He became again a judge of inquiry,
like the fencing master, who, practising
with his dearest friend, elated by the clash
of weapons, becomes excited, forgets him-
self, and kills him.

“ So,” continued Daburon, “ you met ab-
solutely no one who could affirm that he
saw you ? You did not speak to a living
soul? You went in nowhere, — not even
into a cafe or a theatre ? ”

“ No, monsieur.”

“ Well, monsieur, it is a great misfortune
for you, — a very great misfortune ; for I
must inform you, that it was precisely dur-
ing this Tuesday evening, between eight
o’clock and midnight, that the Widow Le-
rouge was assassinated. Justice can point
to the exact hour. Again, monsieur, in
your interests, I entreat you to reflect, — to
make a strong appeal to your memory.”

This pointing out of the exact day and
hour of the murder stunned Albert. He
carried his hand to his forehead with a de-
spairing gesture. But he replied in a calm
voice, —

“ I am very unfortunate, monsieur ; but
I have no explanation to make.”

Daburon’s surprise was profound. What,
not an alibi ? Nothing V This could be
no snare nor system of defence. Was,
then, this man as strong as he had imag-
ined ? Doubtless ; but he had been taken
unaware, — caught unprovided. He had
never imagined that it was possible for the
accusation to fall upon him ; it could only
do so by a miracle.

The judge raised slowly, and one by oi$e,
the large pieces of paper that covered the
convicting articles seized in Albert’s room.

“We will pass on,” he continued, “ to
the examination of the charges which

weigh against you. Will you please come
nearer? Do you recognize these articles
as belonging to yourself? ”

“ Yes, monsieur, they are all mine.”

“ Well, take this foil. Who broke it ? ”

“ I, monsieur, in fencing with M. Courti-
vois, who can bear witness to it.”

“ That will be inquired into. Where is
the broken end ? ”

“ I do not know. Upon that point, you
must ask my valet de chambre, Lubin.”

“ Exactly. He declares that he has
hunted for it, and cannot find it. I must
tell you that the victim received the fatal
blow with the end of a foil, broken and
sharpened. This piece of stuff, on which
the assassin wiped his weapon, proves it.”

“ I beseech you, monsieur, to order a
most minute search for this. It is impos-
sible that the other half of the foil is not to
be found.”

“ Orders have been given to that effect.
See here, traced out on this paper the exact
imprint of the murderer’s foot. I have ap-
plied it to the sole of one of your boots ; it,
at once, you perceive, adapts itself with the
utmost precision. This piece of plaster has
been poured into the hollow left by your
heel : you observe that it is, in all re-
spects, your own heel. I perceive, too, the
mark of a peg, which is also here.”

Albert followed with marked anxiety the
judge’s every movement. It was plain
that he was struggling against a growing
terror. Was he attacked by that panic
which stupefies criminals when they are on
the point of being convicted ? To all re-
marks of the magistrate, he replied in a
dull voice, —

“ It is true, — perfectly true.”

“ Wait,” continued Daburon; “listen
further, before crying out. The criminal
had an umbrella. The end of this umbrella
sank in the mud ; the round of wood-work,
which ends the cloth, was found moulded
in the hollow. Here is this clod of mud,
raised with the utmost care; and here is
your umbrella. Compare the rounds.
Are they alike, or not ? ”

“ These things, monsieur,” attempted Al-
bert, “ are wonderful coincidences.”

“ Well, that remains to be proved ; look
at the end of this cigar, found at the scene
of the crime, and tell of what brand it
is, and how it was smoked.”

“ It is a trabuco, and was smoked with
a cigar-holder.”

“ Like these, eh ? ” persisted the judge,
showing the cigars and holders of amber and
meerschaum, taken from the library mantel.

“ Ah ! ” murmured Albert, “ it is a fatal-
ity, — a wonderful coincidence.” 4

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

97

“ Patience ; that is nothing, as yet. The
assassin of the Widow Lerouge wore gloves.
The victim, in the convulsions of agony,
seized the murderer’s hands ; and these
fragments of skin remained in her nails.
These were preserved, and are here. They
are of pearl gray, are they not? Now,
here are the gloves which you wore on
Tuesday. They are gray, and they are
frayed. Compare these particles with your
own gloves. Do they not correspond?
Are they not of the same color, the same
skin ? ”

He could neither deny it, equivocate,
nor find subterfuges. The evidence was
there before his eyes. The brutal deed
shone forth. While appearing to occupy
himself solely with the objects lying upon his
table, Daburon never lost sight of his pris-
oner. Albert was terrified. A cold per-
spiration bathed his face, and glided drop
by drop down his cheeks. His hands trem-
bled so much that they were of no use to
him. With a choking voice he repeated, —

“ It is horrible, horrible 1 ”

“ Finally,” pursued the inexorable judge,
“ here are the pantaloons you wore on the
evening of the murder. It is plain that they
have been wet; and, besides the mud,
there are traces of dirt. Observe, too, they
are torn on the knees. We will admit, for
the sake of argument, that you might not
remember where you went on that evening ;
but who could believe that you do not
know where you tore your pantaloons and
frayed your gloves ? ”

What courage could resist such assaults ?
Albert’s firmness and energy were at an end.
His brain whirled. He fell heavily into a
chair, exclaiming, —

“ I shall go mad 1 ”

“ You see,” insisted the judge, whose
gaze had become unbearably fixed upon
him, — “ you see that the Widow Lerouge
could only have been stabbed by you.”

“ I see,” protested Albert, “ that I am a
victim of one of those terrible fatalities
which makes men doubt the evidence ot
their reason. I am innocent.”

“ Then tell me where you passed Tues-
day evening.”

“ Ah, monsieur ! ” cried the prisoner,
« I must, — ’ But, restraining himself, he
added in a dull voice, “ I have made the
only answer that I can make.”

Daburon arose, having now reached his
final grand stroke.

“It is, then, my duty,” said he, with a
shade of irony, to supply your failure of
memory. I am going to recount to you
what you did. On Tuesday evening, at
eight o’clock, after having received from
7

wine a dreadful energy, you left your
home. At thirty-five minutes past eight,
you took the cars at St. Lazare station.
At nine o’clock, you got out at Rueil sta-
tion.”

And, adopting without shame, the ideas
of Pere Tabaret, the judge of inquiry
repeated nearly word for word the tirade
improvised the night before by his amateur
agent of police.

He had every reason, while speaking, to
admire the penetration of the old detective.
In all his life, his eloquence had never pro-
duced so striking an effect. Every sen-
tence, every word, carried weight. The
assurance of the prisoner, already shaken,
fell piece by piece, just as the walls of a
town give way when riddled with balls.

Albert was, as the judge perceived, like
a man, who, rolling to the bottom of a pre-
cipice, sees all the points which might
retard his fall fail him, and who feels a
new and more painful bruise at each pro-
jecture, against which his body strikes.

“ And now,” concluded the judge of
inquiry, “ listen to good advice : do not
persist in this mode of denying, impossible
to sustain. Change your mind. Justice,
be assured, is ignorant of nothing which it
is important to know. Believe me ; seek
the indulgence of the courts : confess your
guilt.”

Daburon did not believe that his pris-
oner would again refuse. He pictured him
overwhelmed, confounded, throwing him-
self at his feet, asking for mercy. But he
was deceived.

However great appeared Albert’s pros-
tration, he found in one last effort>of his
will sufficient strength to recover himself
and again protest, —

“ Yon are right, monsieur,” he said in a
sad, but firm voice ; “ every thing seems to
prove the criminal. In your place, I should
have spoken as you have done ; and yet 1
swear to you that I am innocent.”

“ Upon my word,” — began the judge.

“I am innocent,” interrupted Albert;
“ and I repeat it, without the least hope of
changing in any way your conviction. Yes,
every thing speaks against me, — every
thing, even my own bearing before you.
It is true, my courage has been shaken by
these incredible, miraculous, overwhelming
coincidences. I am overcome, because I
feel the impossibility of establishing my
innocence. But I do not despair. My
honor and my life are in the hands of God.
At the same time that I appear to you
lost, — for I do not deceive myself, mon
sieur, — I do not despair of a complete jus-
tification. I await it confidently.”

98

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ What have you to say ? ” interrupted
the judge.

“ Nothing but what I have already said,
monsieur.”

“ So you persist in denying your guilt ? ”

“ I am innocent.”

“ But this is folly — ”

“ I am innocent.”

“ Very well,” said Daburon ; “ that is
enough for to-day. You shall hear the
reading of the official report, and will then
be taken back to your prison. I exhort
you to reflect. Night will perhaps bring
on a better feeling ; if you wish at any
time to speak to me, send word, and I will
come to you. I will give orders to that
effect. You may read now, Constant.”

When Albert departed with the gen-
darmes, the judge muttered in a low tone,

“ There's an obstinate fellow for you.” He
certainly had not a shadow of doubt. To
him, Albert was as surely the murderer as
if he heard him confess it. Even if he
should persist in his purpose of denial to
the end of the investigation, it would be
impossible, that, with the proofs already
in existence, a verdict of “ Not guilty ”
should be rendered. It was a hundred to
one, that to all the questions the jury
would reply in the affirmative.

However, left to himself, Daburon did
not experience that intense satisfaction,
mixed with vanity, which is ordinarily felt
after one has successfully conducted an ex-
amination, when he has succeeded in get-
ting his prisoner into Albert’s state. Some-
thing disturbed him and shocked him. At
the bottom of his heart, he felt ill at ease.
He had triumphed ; but his victory gave
him only uneasiness, pain, and vexation. A
reflection so simple that he could hardly un-
derstand why it had not occurred to him
before increased his discontent, and made
him angry with himself.

“ Something told me,” he muttered,
“ that I was wrong to undertake this busi-
ness. I am punished for not having obeyed
this inner voice. I must excuse myself
from going on with it. This Viscount de
Commarin has been arrested, imprisoned,
examined, overpowered : he will certainly
be convicted, and probably condemned.
Had I been a stranger to the trial, 1 could
have appeared in Claire’s presence. Her
grief would have been great. As her friend, I
could have soothed her, mingled my tears
with hers, calmed her regrets. With time,
she might have been consoled, — perhaps
have forgotten him. She might, perhaps,
then have rewarded me; who knows?
While now, whatever may happen, I shall
be an object of terror to her : she will nev-

er be able to endure the sight of me. I
shall always in her eyes be the assassin of
her lover. I have with my own hands
formed between her and myself an abyss
which centuries can never fill, by my own
great fault.”

The unhappy judge heaped the bitterest
reproaches upon himself. He was in de-
spair. He had never so hated Albert, —
this wretched man, who, stained with a
crime, stood in the way of his happiness.
Then how he cursed Pere Tabaret 1
Alone, he should not have decided so quick-
ly. lie would have thought over it, matured
his decision, and certainly recollected the
inconveniences, which now occurred to him.
This man, like a badly trained bloodhound,
urged on and carried away by his stupid
passion, had become confused.

It was precisely this unfavorable moment
that Tabaret chose for making his appear-
ance before the judge. He had been in-
formed of the termination of the inquiry ;
and he arrived, impatient to know what had
passed, swelling with curiosity, his nose in
air, distended with the sweet hope of hear-
ing of the fulfilment of his predictions.

“ What answer did he make ? ” he asked
almost before he had opened the door.

“ He is evidently the criminal,” replied
the judge, with a harshness very different
from his usual manner.

Pere Tabaret, who had expected to re-
ceive praises by the basketful, was surpris-
ed at this tone ! It was, therefore, with
great hesitancy that he offered his further
services.

“ I have come,” he said modestly, “ to
know if any investigations are necessary to
demolish the alibi offered by the prisoner.”

“ He gave no alibi” replied the magis-
trate dryly.

“ How,” cried the old detective, “ no ali-
bi ? Pshaw ! I ask pardon : he has of
course then confessed every thing.”

“No,” said the judge impatiently, “he
has confessed nothing. He acknowledges
that the proofs are decisive : he cannot give
an account of how he spent his time ; but
he protests his innocence.”

In the centre of the office, Tabaret, his
mouth wide open, his eyes starting wildly,
stood in the most grotesque attitude his as-
tonishment could effect. He was literally
thunderstruck.

In spite of his anger, Daburon could not
help smiling; and even Constant gave a
grin, which on his lips was equivalent to a
paroxysm of laughter.

“ Not an alibi, nothing ? ” murmured the
old fellow. “ No explanations ? The idea !
It is inconceivable. Not an alibi? We

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

99

must be mistaken : he is certainly not the
criminal. It cannot be at all ! ”

The judge of inquiry felt that the old am-
ateur must have been waiting the result of
the examination at the wine shop around
the corner, or else that he had gone mad.

“ Unfortunately,” said he, “ we are not
mistaken. It is too clearly shown that
Monsieur de Commarin is the murderer.
But, if you like, ask Constant for his report
of the examination, and run it over while I
put these papers in order.”

“ Very well,” said the old fellow with fe-
verish anxiety.

He sat down in Constant’s chair, and,
leaning his elbows on the table, buryingdiis
hands in his hair, in less than no time read
through the report. When he had finished,
he arose wild, pale, his face distorted.

“ Monsieur,” said he to the judge in a
strange voice, “ I have been the involunta-
ry cause of a terrible mistake. This man
is innocent.”

“ Come, come,” said Daburon without
stopping his preparations for departure,
“ you are losing your head, my dear Taba-
ret. How, after all that you have read
there, can — ? ”

“ Yes, monsieur, yes ; it is because I have
read this that I entreat you to pause, or we
shall add one more to the sad list of judi-
cial errors. Read this examination over
carefully ; there is not a reply which does
not declare this unfortunate man innocent,
— not one word which does not throw out
a ray of light. And he is still in prison,
still in solitary confinement ? ”

“ He is ; and there he will remain, if you
please,” broke in the judge. “It becomes
you well to speak in this manner, after the
way you talked last night, while I hesitated
so much.”

“ But, monsieur,” cried the old detective,
“ I say now precisely the same. Ah, wretched
Tabaret ! all is lost; and they will not un-
derstand you. Pardon me, monsieur, if I
lack the respect due to your office ; but you
have not grasped my method. It is, how-
ever, very simple. Given a crime, with all
the circumstances and details, I construct,
piece by piece, a plan of accusation, which
I do not warrant until it is entire and per-
fect. If a man is found to whom this plan
applies exactly in every particular, the au-
thor of the crime is found ; otherwise, we
have laid hands upon an innocent person.
It is not sufficient that such and such par-
ticulars seem to point to him ; it must be
all or nothing. This is infallible. Novy,
in this case, how have I reached the crimi-
nal ? By proceeding by inference from the
known to the unknown. I have examined

his work ; and I have formed an idea of the
worker. Reason and logic lead us to what ?
To a villain, determined, courageous, and
prudent, versed in the business. And do
you think that such a man would neglect
a precaution that would not be omitted by
the commonest tyro ? It is inconceivable.
What 1 This man is so skilful as to leave
such feeble traces that they escaped Gevrol’s
practised eye; and you think he would risk
discovery by leaving an entire night unac-
counted for ? It’s impossible ! I am as
sure of my system as of a well-proved rule
of arithmetic. The Jonchere assassin had
an alibi. Albert has offered none ; then he
is innocent.”

Daburon looked at the old detective pity-
ingly, — much as he would look at a re-
markable monomaniac. When he had fin-
ished, —

“ My worthy Monsieur Tabaret,” he
said to him, “ you are entirely in the wrong.
You err through an excess of subtlety. You
allow too freely to others the wonderful sa-
gacity with which you yourself are en-
dowed. Our man has failed in prudence,
simply because he believed his rank would
place him above suspicion.”

“No, monsugir, — no, a thousand times
no. My criminal, — the true one, — he
whom we have* yet to find, would dread
every thing. Besides, does Albert defend
himself? No. He is overwhelmed ; be-
cause he perceives the coincidences so fatal
that they appear to condemn him, without
a chance of escape. Did he try to excuse
himself? No. He simply replied, ‘It is
terrible.’ And then this reticence that I
cannot explain.”

“ I can explain it very easily ; and I am
as confident as though he had confessed
every thing. I have more than sufficient
proofs for that.”

“ Ah, monsieur, those proofs 1 There
are always enough of those against an ar-
rested man. They have existed against
every innocent man who was ever con-
demned. Proofs 1 Why, I had them in
quantities against Kaiser, the poor little
tailor, who — ”

“ Well,” interrupted the judge, hastily,
“ if he is not the one most interested in the
crime, who is ? His father, the Count de
Commarin ? ”

“ No : the true assassin is a young man.”

Daburon had arranged his papers, and
finished his preparations. He took up his
hat, and, as he was going out, replied, —

“ Adieu ! Come and see me by-and-by,
Tabaret, when you have got rid of these
fancies. To-morrow we will talk the whole
matter over again. I am rather tired to-

100 THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

night.” Then he added, addressing his
clerk, “ Constant, bring me word, in the
Court of records, in case the prisoner Com-
marin wishes to speak to me.”

He had reached the door ; but Tabaret
barred his exit.

“ Monsieur,” said the old man, “ in the
name of heaven listen to me ! He is inno-
cent, I swear to you. Help me, then, to
find the real criminal. Monsieur, think of
your remorse in case you take this false
step.”

But the magistrate did not wish to hear
more. He pushed Pere Tabaret quickly
aside, and hastened into the gallery.

The old man now turned to Constant.
He wished to convince, persuade, prove to
him. Lost trouble : the tall clerk hastened
to fold up his baggage, thinking of his soup,
which was growing cold.

Having closed the study door, Pfere Tab-
aret, wretched in spirit, was alone in the
dark gallery. The noise of the courts was
hushed : all was silent as the tomb. The
old detective desperately grasped his hair
with both hands.

“ Ah ! ” said he, “ Albert is innocent ;
and it is I who have betrayed him. I, like
a madman, have infused into the obstinate
spirit of this judge a conviction that I can
no longer control. He is*innocent, and is
yet enduring the most horrible anguish.
If he should commit suicide ! There have
been instances of wretched men, who in
despair at being falsely accused have killed
themselves in their prison. Poor boy !
But I will not abandon him. I have ruined
him : I will save him ! I must, I will find
the criminal ; and he shall pay dearly for
my mistake, — the scoundrel I ”

CHAPTER XIII.

After seeing the Count de Commarin
safely in his carriage at the entrance of the
palais de justice, Noel Gerdy seemed in-
clined to leave him.

Resting one hand against the half-opened
carriage door, he bowed respectfully, and
said, —

“ When shall I have the honor of paying
my respects to you, monsieur ? ”

“ Come with me now,” said the old man.

The advocate, still leaning forward, mut-
tered some excuses. He had, he said, im-
portant business : he must positively return
to his rooms at once.

“ Come,” repeated the count, in a tone
which admitted of no reply.

Noel obeyed.

“ You have found your father,” said M.
de Commarin in a low tone ; “ but I must
warn you, that you at the same time lose
your independence.”

The carriage started ; and now, for the
first time, the count noticed that Noel had
very modestly taken his seat opposite
him. This modest bearing pleased him
much.

“ Sit here, by my side, monsieur,” he
said ; “ are you not my son V ”

The advocate, without replying, took his
seat by the side of the old man, but as far
from him as possible.

He had received a terrible shock in Dab-
uron’s presence; for he retained none of
his usual boldness, none of that sang-froid
by which he was accustomed to conceal his
feelings. Fortunately, the ride gave him
time to breathe, and to recover himself a
little.

On the way from the palais de justice to
their home, not a word passed between
the father and son.

When the carriage stopped before the
flight of stairs, and the count got out with
( Noel’s assistance, there was great commo-
j tion among the servants.

There were, it is true, few of them pres-
ent, nearly all having been summoned to
the palais ; but the count and the advocate
had scarcely disappeared, when, as if by
enchantment, they were all assembled in
the entry. They came from the garden,
the stables, the cellar, and the kitchen.
Nearly all bore marks of their calling.
One young groom ran about with his
wooden shoes filled with straw, shuffling on
the marble floor like a mangy dog on the
Gobelin tapestry. One of these fellows
recognized Noel from his visit of the previ-
ous Sunday; and that was enough to set
fire to all these lovers of gossip, thirsting
for scandal.

Since morning, moreover, the unusual
events at the Commarin house had started
a great uproar in sooiety. A thousand
stories were circulated, talked over, cor-
rected, and added to by the ill-natured and
malicious, — some abominably absurd, oth-
ers simply idiotic. Twenty people, very
noble and still more proud, had not been
too proud to send their most intelligent ser-
vants to pay a little visit among the count’s
servants, for the sole purpose of learning
something positive. As it was, nobody
knew any thing ; and yet everybody was
fully informed.

Let any one explain vwho can this very
common phenomenon : a crime is commit-
ted; justice arrives, wrapping itself in

THE WIDOW LEROUGE

101

mystery ; the police are still ignorant of
almost every thing ; and yet details of the
most minute character are circulated
about the streets.

“ Ah,” said a cook, “ that great dark
fellow with the whiskers is the count’s true
son ! ”

“ You are right,” said one of the servants
who had accompanied M. de Commarin ;
“as for the other, he is no more his son
than Jean here ; who, by the way, will be
kicked out of doors, if he is caught in here
with his dirty working-shoes on.”

“ Likely story,” exclaimed Jean, smiling
a little at the danger which threatened him.

“ He has been expected all the time,”
said the cook.

“ Why, how is that ? ”

“ Well, you see, one day, long ago, when
the countess who is now dead was out
walking with her little son, who was about
six months old, the child was stolen by
gypsies. The poor lady was full of grief;
but, above all, feared her husband, who
was not kind to her. What was to be
done ? She purchased a brat from an old
woman, who happened to be -passing ; and,
never having noticed his child, the count
has never known the difference since.”

“ But the assassination ! ”

“ That’s very simple. When the wo-
man saw her brat in such a nice berth, she
bled him finely, and has kept up a system
of blackmailing all along. So he resolved
to put an end to it, and come to a final
settling with her.”

“ And this brown fellow, — what about
him ? ”

The orator would have gone on, without
doubt, giving the most satisfactory explana-
tions of every thing, if he had not been in-
terrupted by the entrance of Lubin, who
came from the* palais in company with
young Joseph. His success, so brilliant
up to5 this time, was cut short, just as that
of an inferior singer when the star comes
on the stage. The entire assembly turned
towards Albert’s valet de chambre, all eyes
questioning him. He knew at once that
he was a man of importance ; but he did
not abuse his advantages, and make his
little world languish too long.

“ What a rascal ! ” he cried out. “ What
a villainous fellow is this Albert ! ”

He purposely did away with “ monsieur ”
and “ viscount,” and met with general ap-
proval for so doing.

“But,” he added, “I always had my
doubts. The fellow didn’t please me by
half. Just see to what we are exposed
every day in our profession. It is dreadfully
disagreeable. The judge concealed noth-

ing from me. ‘ Lubin,* said he, ‘ it was
very wrong for a man like you to serve
such a scoundrel.’ For you must know,
that, besides an old woman of about eighty,
he also assassinated a young girl of twelve.
The little child, the judge told me, was
chopped into bits.”

“ Ah ! ” put in Joseph ; “ he must have
been a brute. How they will give it to
him for such a deed, even though he is rich ;
for they always punish poor men, who do
it simply to gain a living 1 ”

“ Pshaw 1 ” said Lubin in a knowing
tone; “you will see him come out of it as
pure as snow. These rich men can do any
thing.”

“ But,” said the cook, “I’d give willingly
a month’s wages to be a mouse, and to lis-
ten to what the proud count and the tall
brown fellow are talking about. If I could
only get a little peep through the key-
hole.”

. This proposition did not meet with much
favor. The servants knew by experience
that, on important occasions, spying was
worse than useless.

M. de Commarin knew all about ser-
vants from infancy.

His study was, therefore, a shelter to all
imprudence. The sharpest ear placed at
the keyhole could understand nothing of
what was going on within, even when the
count was in a passion, and his voice loud-
est. One alone, Denis, monsieur le premier,
as they called him, had the opportunity of
gathering information ; but he was well
paid for being discrete : and he was dis-
cretion itself.

At this time, Monsieur de Commarin
was sitting in the same chair which he had
beaten with such a furious hand while lis-
tening to Albert.

From the moment he touched the step of
his carriage, the old gentleman recovered
his haughtiness. He became even more
arrogant in his manner, as if he felt the
mortification of his attitude before the
judge, and wished himself dead for what
he now considered an unpardonable weak-
ness.

He wondered how he could have yielded
to a momentary impulse, — how his grief
could have so basely betrayed him.

At the remembrance of the avowals
wrested from him in his wildness, he
blushed, and called himself the worst of
names.

Like Albert, the night before, Noel, hav-
ing recovered himself fully, held himself
erect, cold as marble, respectful, but no
longer humble.

The lather and son exchanged glances

102

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

which had nothing of sympathy nor of
friendliness.

They examined one another ; they meas-
ured each other, much as two adversaries
feel their way with their eyes before en-
countering with their weapons.

“ Monsieur,” finally said the count in a
hard tone, “ henceforth this house is yours.
From this moment, you are the Viscount
de Commarin ; you re-enter into the fulness
of the rights of which you have been de-
prived. Wait. Listen, before you thank
me. I wish, in the beginning, to relieve
you from all misunderstanding. Had I
been master of the situation, I should never
have recognized you : Albert should have
remained in the position in which I placed
him.”

“I understand you, monsieur,” replied
Noel. “ I don’t think that I could ever
bring myself to do an act like that by
which you deprived me of my birthright ;
but I declare that, if I had the misfortune
to have done it, I should have thereafter
acted as you have. Your rank was too
conspicuous to permit a voluntary acknowl
edgment. It was a thousand times better
to suffer an injustice to continue in secret
than to expose your name to the com-
ments of the malicious.”

This answer surprised the count, and
very agreeably. But he would not let his
satisfaction be seen ; and it was with a still
harder tone that he continued, —

“ I have no claim, monsieur, upon your
affection : I do not ask for it ; but I insist
at all times upon the utmost deference. It
is traditional in our house, that the son shall
never interrupt his father when he is speak-
ing; that you have just been guilty of.
Children are not to judge their parents;
that also you have just done. When I was
forty years of age, my father was in his
second childhood ; but I do not remember
having raised my voice once above his.
This much, said by way of caution, I con-
tinue. I have undergone considerable ex-
pense in providing Albert with an estab-
lishment distinct from my own, — with ser-
vants, horses, and carriages; and I have
allowed the unhappy boy four thousand
francs a month. I have decided, in order
to put a stop to all foolish gossip, and to
make your position the easier, that you
ought to hold a more important place in the
house, this for my own sake. Further, I
will increase your monthly allowance to six
thousand francs; which I trust you will
spend as nobly as possible, giving the least
possible chance for ridicule. I cannot too
strongly exhort you to the utmost caution.
Keep close watch over yourself. Weigh

your words well. Reason about your slight-
est actions. You will be the point of observa-
tion for thousands of impertinent idlers who
compose our world ; your blunders will be
their delight. Do you fence ? ”

“ Moderately well.”

“ So. Do you ride ? ”

“ No ; but in six months I will be a good
horseman, or break my neck.”

“It is fashionable to be a horseman, not
to break one’s neck. Let us proceed.
You will, of course, not occupy Albert’s
apartments. They will be closely locked,
as soon as they are free from the police.
Thank heaven ! the house is large. You
will occupy the other wing ; and there will
be a separate entrance to your apartments,
by a separate staircase. Servants, horses,
carriages, furniture, such as becomes a vis-
count, will be at your service, cost what it
may, within forty-eight hours. On the day
of your taking possession, you must look
as though you had been installed tor years.
There will be great scandal ; but that can-
not be avoided. A prudent father might
send you away for a few months to the
Austrian court or to the Russian ; but, in
this instance, such prudence would be
absurd. Much better a dreadful outcry,
which ends quickly, than low murmurs
which last forever. Dare public opinion ;
and, in eight days, it will have exhausted
its comments, and the story will have be-
come old. So, to work ! This evening, the
laborers shall be here; and, in the first
place, I must present you to my servants.”

To put his purpose into execution, the
count moved to touch the bell-rope. Noel
stopped him.

Since the commencement of this inter-
view, the advocate had wandered in the
regions of the thousand and one nights, the
wonderful lamp in his hand. The fairy
reality cast into the shade his wildest
dreams. He was dazzled at the words of
the count, and had need of all his reason
to struggle against the giddiness which
came over him, at realizing his great good
fortune. Touched by a magic wand, he
seemed to awake to a thousand novel and
unknown sensations. He rolled in purple
and bathed in gold.

But he knew how to appear unmoved.
His face had contracted the habit of guard-
ing the secret of the most violent inner ex-
citement. While all his passions vibrated
within him, he listened apparently with a
sad and almost indifferent coldness.

“Permit me,” he said to the count,

“ without overstepping the bounds of the
utmost respect, to say a few words. I am
touched more than I can express by your

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

goodness ; and yet, I beseech you, to delay
its manifestation. The proposition I am
about to suggest may perhaps appear to
you worthy of consideration. It seems to
me that the situation demands the greatest
delicacy. It is well to despise public opin-
ion, but not to defy it. I am certain to be
judged with the utmost, severity. If I in-
stal myself so suddenly in your house,
what will they not say ? I shall have the
appearance of a conqueror, who thinks
little, in attaining his purpose, of passing
over the bodies of the conquered. They
will reproach me with occupying the bed
still warm from Albert’s body. They will
rail bitterly at my haste in taking posses-
sion. They will certainly compare me to
Albert ; and the comparison will be to my
disadvantage, because I seem to triumph
at a time when a great disaster has fallen
upon our house.”

The count listened without marked dis-
approval, struck perhaps by the justice of
his reasons.

Noel imagined that his hardness was
much more feigned than real; and this
idea encouraged him.

“ I beseech you then, monsieur,” he con-
tinued, “ to permit me for the present in
no way to change my mode of living. Bv
not showing myself, I leave all malicious
remarks to waste themselves in air, — I let
public opinion the better familiarize itself
with the idea of a coming change. There
is a great deal in not taking the world by
surprise. By waiting, I shall not have the
air of an intruder on presenting myself.
Absent, I shall have the advantages which
the unknown always possess, — I shall
draw to myself the good opinion of all those
who have envied Albert, I shall obtain as
defenders all those servants who would to-
morrow assail me, if my elevation came
suddenly upon them. Besides, by this de-
lay, I should accustom myself to my abrupt
change of fortune. I ought not to bring
into your world, which is now mine, the
manners of a parvenu. My name ought
not to incommode me, like an ill-made coat.
And, by thus acting, it will be possible for
me to rectify, at home and without noise,
the mistakes of my early education.”

“ Perhaps it would be the wisest,” mur-
mured the count.

This assent, so easily obtained, surprised
Noel. He got the idea that the count had
only wished to prove him, to test him. In
any case, whether he had triumphed by
his eloquence, or whether he had simply
shunned a trap, he had triumphed. His
boldness increased ; he determined to make
himself master in every way.

“I must add, monsieur,” he continued,
“ that I have, certain changes to bring about
in myself. Before entering upon duties in
my new life, I ought to finish those in my
old. I have friends and clients. This
event has surprised me, just as I was begin-
ning to reap the reward of ten years°of
hard work and perseverance. I had yet
only sown ; I was on the point of gathering
in my harvest. My name was already ris-
ing. I had obtained some little influence.
I confess, without shame, that I have here-
tofore professed ideas and opinions that
would not be suited to this house ; and it
would be impossible to-day or to-morrow
for — ”

“ Ah ! ” interrupted the count in a ban-
tering tone, “you were a liberal. It is a
fashionable disease. Albert was a great
liberal.”

“ My ideas, monsieur,” said Noel eagerly,
“ were those of every intelligent man who
wishes to rise. Besides, have not all par-
ties one and the same aim — power ? They
merely take different means of reaching it.
I will not enlarge upon this subject. Be
assured, monsieur, that I will respect my
name, and think and act as a man of my
rank should.”

“ I trust so,” said M. de Commarin ; “ and
I hope that you will never make me regret
Albert.”

“ At least, monsieur, it will not be my
fault. But, since you have mentioned the
name of that unfortunate young man, let us
speak of him.”

The count cast a look of defiance upon
Noel.

“ What can now be done for Albert ? ”
he asked

“ What, monsieur ! ” cried Noel with
ardor, “ would you abandon him, when he
has not a friend left in the world ? He is
still your son, monsieur : he is my brother.
For thirty years he has borne the name of
Commarin. All the members of a family
are one. Innocent, or guilty, he has a
right to count upon us ; and we owe him
our assistance.”

This was another of those sentiments
which the count recognized as Albert’s ;
and this second one again touched him.

“ What do you then hope for, monsieur? ”
he asked.

“ To save him, if he is innocent ; and I
love to believe that he is. I am 'an advo-
cate, monsieur ; and I wish to defend him.
I have been told that I have considerable
talent : in such a cause, I must have. Yes,
however strong the charges against him
may be, I will overthrow them. I will dis-
pel all doubts. The truth shall burst forth

104

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

through my voice. I will find new accents
to imbue the judges with my conviction.

I will save him ; and this shall be my
last cause.”

“And if he should confess,” said the
count, “ if he should confess ? ”

“Then, monsieur,” replied Noel with a
dark look, “ I will render him the last ser-
vice, which in such a misfortune I should
ask of a brother, — the means of avoiding
judgment.”

“ That is well said, monsieur,” said the
count, — “ very well, my son.”

And he extended his hand to Noel, who
pressed it, bowing with a respectful
acknowledgment.

The advocate breathed again. At last
he had found the way to the heart of this
haughty noble ; he had conquered, he had
pleased him.

“ Let us return to ourselves,” continued
the count. “ I yield to the reasons which
you have suggested. But do not consider
this a precedent. I never retire from a
plan once undertaken, unless it is proved
to me to be bad, and contrary to my inter-
ests. But at least nothing need prevent
your remaining here to-day, and dining
with me. We will, in the first place, see
where you can lodge until you formally
take possession of the apartments which
are to be prepared for you.”

Noel ventured to interrupt the old gen-
tleman again.

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ when you bade me
follow you here, I obeyed you, as was my
duty. Now another and a sacred duty
calls me away. Madame Gerdy is at this mo-
ment expiring. Ought I to leave the death-
bed of her who filled my mother’s place ? ”
“ Valerie ! ” murmured the count.

He leaned upon the arm of his chair,
his face buried in his hands ; in one mo-
ment the whole past rose up before him.

“ She has done me great harm,” he mur-
mured, as if answering liis thoughts. “ She
has ruined my whole life ; but ought I to
be implacable? She is dying from the
accusation which is hanging over our son,
Albert. It was I who was the cause of it
all Doubtless, in this last hour, a word
from me would be a great consolation to her.
I will accompany you, monsieur.”

Noel started at this unexpected pro-
position.

“ O monsieur ! ” said he hastily, “ spare
yourself, pray, a heart-rending sight. Your
;going would be useless. Madame Gerdy
probably yet exists ; but her mind is dead.
Her brain was unable to resist so violent a
rshock. The unfortunate woman would
peither recognize nor understand you.”

“ Go then alone,” sighed the count, —

“ go, my son.”

The words “ my son,” pronounced with
a marked emphasis, sounded like a note of
victory in Noel’s ears, which only his
studied reserve concealed.

He bowed to take his leave. The old
gentleman signed him to stay.

“ In any event,” he said, “ a place at
table will be set for you here. I dine at
precisely half-past six. I shall be glad
to see you.”

He rang. Monsieur le premier appeared.

“ Denis,” said he, “ none of the orders I
have given will affect this gentleman. You
will tell this to all the servants. This gen-
tleman is at home here.”

The advocate took his leave ; and the
count felt great comfort in being once more
alone.

Since morning, events had followed one
another with such bewildering rapidity
that his thoughts could scarcely keep pace
with them. At last, he was able to reflect.

“ There, then,” said he to himself, “ is
my legitimate son. I am sure of his birth,
at any rate. Truly it would be with a bad
grace, were I to deny him. 1 find him an
exact picture of myself at thirty. He is a
fine fellow, this Noel, very fine. His fea-
tures are decidedly in his favor. He is
intelligent and acute. He knows how to
be humble without lowering himself, firm
without arrogance. His new and unex-
pected fortune does not make him giddy.

I augur well of a man who knows how to
bear himself in prosperity. He thinks
well. He will carry his title proudly.
And yet I feel no sympathy with him ;
it seems to me that I shall regret my
poor Albert. I never knew how to appre-
ciate him. Unhappy boy ! To commit a
dreadful crime 1 He must have lost his
reason. I do not like the sight of this one :
he is too clever. They say that he is per-
fect. He expresses, at least, the noblest
and most appropriate sentiments. He is
kind and brave, magnanimous, generous,
heroic. He is without malice, and is ready
to sacrifice himself to repay me for what I
have done for him. He forgives Madame
Gerdy : he loves Albert. That makes me
distrust him. But all young men nowadays
are so. Ah ! we live in a happy age. Our
children are born free from all human mis-
takes. They have none of the vices, pas-
sions, nor prejudices of their fathers; and
these precocious philosophers, models of
sagacity and virtue, are incapable of com-
mitting the least folly. Alas ! Albert, too,
was perfect; and he has assassinated
Claudine 1 That might imply, — but what

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

105

matters it?” he added, half-aloud. “I
wish I had gone to see Valerie ! ”

And, although the advocate had been
gone at least ten good minutes, M de Com-
marin, not realizing how time had passed,
hastened to the window, in the hope of see-
ing Noel in the yard, and hailing him.

But Noel had already gone. On leaving
the house, he had taken a cab as far as the
Rue Bourgoyne, and from thence to the
Rue St. Lazare.

Arrived at his own door, he threw
rather than save five francs to the driver,
and ran rapidly up to the fourth story.

“Who has called upon me ? ” he asked
of the maid.

“No one, monsieur.”

He seemed relieved from a great anxie-
ty, and spoke again in a calmer tone.

“And the doctor ? ”

“He came this morning,” replied the
maid, “ while you were away ; and he did
not seem at all confident. He has returned
every hour, and is now here.”

“Very well. I am going in to speak to
him. If any one calls, show them into my
study, and call me.”

While entering Madame Gerdy’s cham-
ber, Noel wondered how he could discover,
whether any one had been in during his ab-
sence.

The sick woman, her eyes fixed, her face
convulsed, lay extended upon her back.

She seemed dead, save for sudden starts,
which at intervals shook her and disturbed
the bedclothes.

Above her head was placed a little ves-
sel, filled with ice water, which fell drop by
drop upon her face and upon her forehead,
covered with large bluish spots.

The table and mantel were laden with
little pots, ornamented with strings of
roses, vials for medicines, and half-emptied
glasses.

At the foot of the bed, a piece of linen
stained with blood showed that they had
been using leeches.

Near the fireplace, where burned a large
fire, a nun of the order of St. Vincent de
Paul was crouching, watching a kettle boil.

She was a woman still young, her face
whiter than her skirt. Her features were
immovably placid, her look mournful, be-
traying the renunciation of the flesh, and
the abdication of all independence of
thought.

Her dress of gray hung from her in large
ungraceful folds. At her every motion, her
large bead-roll of dyed box-wood, weighed
down by a cross and copper medals, was
shaken, and dragged on the ground with a
noise like a chain.

Upon a chair opposite the bed Dr. Herve
sat, following apparently with close atten-
tion the sister’s preparations. He raised
himself eagerly, as Noel entered.

e “ At last you are here,” he said, giving
his friend a strong grasp of the hand.

“ I was detained at the palais,” said the
advocate, as if he felt the necessity of ex-
plaining his absence ; “ and I have been, as
you may well imagine, dreadfully anxious.”

He bent down to the doctor’s ear, and,
with his voice trembling with anxiety,
asked, —

“ Well ? ”

The doctor shook his head with an air of
deep discouragement.

“ She is much worse,” he replied ;
“since morning, bad symptoms have suc-
ceeded each other with frightful rapidity.”

He checked himself'. The advocate
seized his arm, and pinched it. Madame
Gerdy had stirred a little, and let a feeble
groan escape her.

“ She understood you,” murmured Noel.

“ I wish it were so,” said the doctor ; “ it
would be most encouraging. But you are
mistaken. However, go to her.”

He approached Madame Gerdy, and, tak-
ing her pulse, examined it carefully; then,
with the end of his finger, he lightly raised
the eyelid.

The eye appeared dull, glassy, lifeless.

“Come, judge for yourself; take her
hand, speak to her.”

Noel, trembling all over, obeyed his
friend. He advanced, and, leaning on the
bed so that his mouth almost touched her
ear, he murmured, —

“ Mother, it is I, — Noel, — your own Noel.
Speak to me, make some sign, if you know
me, mother.”

It was in vain; she retained her fright-
ful immobility. Not a sign of intelligence
crossed her features.

“ You see,” said the doctor, “ I told you
the truth.”

“ Poor woman ! ” sighed Noel, “ does she
suffer? ”

“ Not now.”

The nun now rose; and she too came
near the bed.

“ Doctor,” said she, “ it is all ready.”

“ Then call the maid, sister, to help us.
We are going to apply a mustard poultice.”

The servant hastened in. In the arms of
the two women, Madame Gerdy was like a
corpse, whose last toilette they were mak-
ing. She was as rigid as though she were
dead. She must have suffered much and
long, poor woman 1 for it was pitiable to see
how thin she was. The nun herself was af-
fected, although she had become habituated

106

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

to the sight of suffering. How many sick
people had breathed their last in her arms
during the fifteen years that she had gone
from pillow to pillow !

Noel, during this time, had retired into
the recess of the window, and pressed his
burning brow against the panes.

Of what was he thinking, while she was
dying a few paces from him, — she who
had given him so many proofs of maternal
tenderness and devotion? Did he regret
her ? Did he not think rather of the grand
and magnificent existence which was await-
ing him on the other side of the river, at the
Faubourg St. Germain ? He turned ab-
ruptly about, upon hearing the voice of his
friend.

“ It is done,” said the doctor ; “ we have
only now to wait the effect of the mustard.
If she feels it, it will be a good sign ; if it
has no effect, we will try cupping.”

“ And if she never stirs ? ”

The doctor answered only with a shrug
of the shoulders, which showed his feeling
of absolute powerlessness.

“ I understand your silence, Hervd,” mur-
mured Noel. “ Alas ! you fear that to-night
she is lost.”

“ Scientifically, yes ; but I do not yet de-
spair. It was hardly a year ago that the
grandfather of one of our comrades was
saved in an almost identical case ; and I
have seen worse cases than this, — where
suppuration had commenced.”

“ It breaks my heart to see her in that
state. Must she die without recovering her
reason for one moment ? Will she not rec-
ognize me, speak one word to me ? ”

“ Who knows ? This disease, my poor
friend ! baffles all foresight. Each moment,
the aspect may change, according as the in-
flammation affects such or such a part of
the encephalic mass. She is now in a state
of utter insensibility, of the destruction of
all her intellectual faculties, of drowsiness,
of paralysis ; to-morrow, she may be taken
with convulsions, accompanied with a light-
ness of the brain, a fierce delirium.”

“ And will she speak then ? ”
m “ Without doubt ; but that will not change
either the nature or the gravity of the dis-
ease.”

“ And will she recover her reason ? ”

“ Perhaps,” answered the doctor, looking
fixedly at his friend ; “ but why do you ask
that ? ” ,

“ Ah, my dear Herve, one word from
Madame Gerdy, — only one, would be of
such use to me ! ”

“In your affairs, eh? Well, I can tell
you nothing, can promise you nothing.
You have chances in your favor, and chances

against you ; only do not be far away. If
her intelligence returns, it will be only by
flashes ; try and profit by them. But I
must go,” added the doctor : “ I have still
three visits to make.”

Noel followed his friend. When he
reached the staircase, —

“ You will return ? ” he asked.

“ This evening, at nine. There is no
need of me at present. All depends upon
the watcher. But I have chosen a pearl. I
know her well.”

“It was you, then, who brought this
nun ? ”

“ Yes, with your permission. Are you
displeased ? ”

“ Not the least in the world. Only, I con-
fess— ”

“ What ? you make a face. Perhaps you
object to having your mother nursed by a
daughter of St. Vincent ? ”

“ My dear Ilerve, you — ” ' — ^

“ Well, I agree with you entirely. They
are adroit, insinuating, dangerous, I know.
If I had an old uncle, whose heir I expected
to be, I shouldn’t bring one of these into my
house. These good daughters are some-i
times charged with strange commissions.!
But what is there to fear now ? Let them*]
speak their foolish words. Money aside, '
these good sisters are the best nurses in the
world. I hope you will have one on your
death-bed. But good-by; I am in a hurry.”

So, regardless of his professional dignity,
the doctor jumped down the stairs; while
Noel, thoughtful, his face charged with anx-
iety, went back into Madame Gerdy’s room.

Upon the threshold of the sick-room, the
nun awaited the advocate’s return.

“ Monsieur,” said she, “ monsieur.”

“ You want something of me, sister ? ”

“ Monsieur, the maid bade me come to
you for money ; she has no more, and had to
get credit at the apothecary’s.”

“Excuse me, sister,” interrupted Noel
in no very eager tone, — “excuse me for
not having anticipated your request; but
you see I am a little confused.”

And, taking out a hundred franc note, he
laid it on the mantel.

“ Thanks, monsieur,” said the sister ; “ I
will keep account of all expenses. We al-
ways do this,” she added ; “ it is more con-
venient for the family, — one is so troubled
at seeing one we love sick. You have per-
haps not thought of giving this poor lady
the sweet aid of our beloved religion ? In
your place, monsieur, I should send with-
out delay for a priest, — ”

“ Why, sister, you see the condition she
is in ! She is the same as dead ; you saw
that she did not heed my voice.”

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

107

. “ That is of little consequence, mon-
sieur,” replied the sister : “ you ought always
to do your duty. She did not reply to you ;
but are you sure that she would' not reply
to a priest? Ah, you do not understand
all the power of the last rites ! I have seen
even the dying revive their intelligence and
strength to make confession, and to receive
the sacred body of our Lord Jesus Christ.
I have often heard families say, that they
did not wish to frighten their sick friend,
— that the sight of the minister of our
Lord would inspire a terror that would
hasten the final end. It is a grievous error.
The priest does not terrify : he reassures
the soul, at the beginning of its long jour-
ney. He speaks in the name of the God of
mercy, who comes to save, not to destroy.
I could cite to you many cases of dying
people who have been cured simply by con-
tact with the sacred balm.”

The good sister spoke in a tone mournful
f as her look.^Her heart was evidently not1
in the words which she pronounced. With-
out doubt, she had learned them when she
first entered the convent. Then they ex-
pressed something she really felt, — she
spoke her own thoughts ; but, since then,,
she had repeated the words over and over
again to the friends of every sick person,
until they lost all meaning. It was there-
1 after only a succession of hackneyed words,
which she spoke much as she did the Latin
words in her rosary. It became simply a
part of her duties as nurse, like the prepa-
ration of draughts, and the making of poul-
tices.

Noel did not listen to her : his thoughts
were far away.

“ Your dear mother,” continued the sis-
ter, “ this good lady that you love so much,
ought to have the aid of her religion. Do
you wish to endanger her soul ? If she
could speak in the midst of these cruel suf-
ferings — ”

The advocate was on the point of reply-
ing, when the servant announced that a
gentleman, who would not give his name,
wished to speak with him on business.

“ I will come,” he said quickly.

“ What do you decide, monsieur ? ” per-
sisted the nun.

« I leave you free, sister, to do as you
may judge best.”

Ttie worthy woman began to recite her
lesson of thanks but uselessly. Noel had
disappeared with a displeased look ; and al-
most immediately she heard his voice in
the next room, saying, —

“ Ah, Clergeot, I had almost given up
seeing you 1 ”

The visitor, who awaited the advocate,

was a person well known in the Rue St.
Lazare, from Rue Provence to the quarters
of Notre Dame de Lorette, and all along
the outer boulevards, from the embank-
ment of Martyrs to the cross-roads at
Clichy.

Clergeot was no more a usurer" than the
father of M. Jourdain was a merchant.
Only having more money than he could
very well use, he lent it to his friends ; and,
in return for this kindness, he consented to
receive interest, which varied from twenty
to thirty per cent.

The excellent man positively enjoyed the
practice ; and his honesty was generally
appreciated. He was never known to ar-
rest a debtor : he preferred to follow him
without relaxation or intermission for ten
years, and drag from him bit by bit what
was due him.

He lived near the top of the Rue Vic-
toire. He had no shop ; and yet he sold
every thing saleable, and some other things,
too, that the law scarcely considers mer-
chandise, — any thing to be useful or neigh-
borly. He often asserted that he was not
rich. It was possibly true. He was odd,
very covetous, and fearfully bold. Light
in purse when it suited him, he would not
lend a hundred sous, even with the Ferri-
ere’s guarantee, to those who did not please
him ; but he would risk his all on the small-
est chance at cards.

His preferred customers consisted of
young girls, actresses, artists, and those
venturesome fellows who enter upon a pro-
fession worth only what they can earn,
such as advocates and doctors.

He lent to women upon their present
beauty, to men upon their future talent.
Slight pledges ! His sagacity, it should be
said, however, enjoyed a great reputation.
It was rarely deceived. A girl of the town,
furnished by Clergeot, had a great start in
the world. For an actress to be in Cler-
geot’s debt was a recommendation prefera-
ble to the warmest criticism.

Madame Juliette had procured this use-
ful and honorable alliance for her lover.

Noel, who knew well how sensitive this
worthy man was to kind attentions, and
how pleased by politeness, began by offer-
ing him a seat, and asking after his health.
Clergeot gave details. His teeth were still
good ; but his sight was beginning to fail.
His leg was growing soft, and his ear hard.
The chapter of grievances ended, “ you .
know,” said he, “ why I have come. Your
notes fall due to-day ; and I am in devilish
need of money. I have one of ten, one of
seven, and a third of five thousand francs ;
total, twenty-two thousand francs.”

108

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ Ah, Clergeot,” replied Noel, “ not a bad
joke, this 1 *’

“ Joke V ” said the usurer; “I am not
joking at all.”

“ 1 hope you are. Why, it’s just eight
days to-day since I wrote to tell you that I
could not be ready, and asking for a re-
newal ! ”

“I remember perfectly receiving your
letter.”

“ What do you say to it, then ? ”

“ By my not answering the note, I sup-
posed that you would understand that I
could not comply with your request. I
trust that you will exert yourself to find the
amount for me.”

Noel let a gesture of impatience escape
him.

“ I cannot do it,” he said : “ so take your
own course. I haven’t a sou.”

“ The devil ! Do you know that I have
ranewed these notes four times already ? ”

“ I know that the interest has been fully
and promptly paid, and at a rate which
need not make you regret the invest-
ment.”

Clergeot never liked to talk about the
interest he received.

He pretended that it w«as humiliating.

“I do not complain ; I only say that you
take things too easily with me. If I had put
your signature in circulation, it would be
paid the moment it came due.”

“ Not at all.”

“ Yes, your pride would not bear trifling ;
and you would have found means to shun a
suit. But you say, ‘ Father Clergeot is a
good fellow : he is trustworthy.’ But I am
so only when it can do me no harm. Now,
to-day, I am in great need of funds, — ■ in
— great — need,” he added, emphasizing
each word.

The old fellow’s decided tone seemed to
disturb the advocate.

“ Must I repeat it ? ” he said ; “ I am com-
pletely drained — com — plete — ly ! ”

“ Indeed ? ” said the usurer ; “ well, I am
sorry for you ; but I shall have to put the
papers in the sheriff’s hands.”

“ To what end ? Let us play our cards
out, Monsieur Clergeot. You expect to in-
crease the sheriff’s revenue. Is it not so ?
After you have been to all the expense, you
may perhaps recover a centime. You will
get judgment against me. Well, what
then ? Do you think of attaching V This
is not my house ; the lease is in Madame
Gerdy’s name.”

“ I know all that. Besides, the sale of
every thing here would not cover the
amount.”

“ Then you count upon dragging me t«

Clichyl Bad speculation, I warn you:
you will not only lose what I owe you, but
much more beside.”

“ Good*!” cried the honest pawnbroker.
“ How you abuse me 1 You call that being
frank. Pshaw 1 if you supposed me capable
of half the malicious things you have said,
my money would be there in your drawer,
ready lor me.”

“ A mistake 1 I should not know
where to get it, unless by asking Madame
Gerdy, — a thing I would never do.”

A sarcastic and most irritating little
laugh, peculiar to Pere Clergeot interrupted
Noel.

“ There would be simply the trouble of
asking,” said the usurer : “ mamma’s purse
has long been empty ; and if the dear crea-
ture should die now, — they tell me she is
very ill, — I would not give two hundred
louis for the inheritance.”

The advocate flushed : his eyes glittered ;
but he dissembled, and protested with some
spirit.

“ We know what we know,” continued
Clergeot quietly. “ Before a man risks his
all, he takes pains to inquire into his
chances. Mamma’s last money was poured
out in October last. Ah 1 the Rue Prov-
ence is an expensive place ! I have made
an estimate, which is at home. Juliette is
a charming woman, to be sure : she has not
her equal, I am convinced ; but she is ex-
pensive, devilish expensive.”

Noel was enraged at hearing his Juliette
thus spoken of by this honorable personage.
But what reply could he make ? Besides,
none of us are perfect; and Clergeot’s fault
was in not properly appreciating women,
which doubtless arose from the business
transactions he had had with them. He
was charming in his business with the fair
sex, complimenting and flattering them ;
but the greatest injuries would be less re-
volting than this impertinent familiarity.

“ You have gone too fast,” he continued,
without deigning to notice his customer’s
look ; “ and I have told you so before.
But, pshaw 1 you are wild over the girl.
You cannot refuse her any thing. Fool !
When a pretty girl wants any thing, you
should let her teaze for it a long time ; it
gives her something to occupy her mind, and
keeps her from thinking of a quantity of
other follies. Four real strong wishes, well
managed, ought to last a year. You don’t
know how to look after your own interests.
I know that her glance would strike terror
into a stone saint ; and she knows her busi-
ness well. Why, there are not ten girls in
Paris who live in such style ! And do you
think she will love you any the more ? Not

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

a bit of it. When she has ruined you,
she’ll leave you in the lurch.”

Noel accepted the eloquence of his pru-
dent banker something as a man without
an umbrella accepts a shower.

“ What is the object of all this ? ” he
asked.

“ Simply that I will not renew your
notes. You understand ? At the moment
they fall due, you must hand me the twenty-
two thousand francs in question. You
need not frown : you will find means to do
it, to prevent my attaching your goods, —
not here, for that would be absurd, but at
your little girl’s house ; who would
scarcely be pleased, and who won’t hesitate
to show her displeasure.”

“ But it is her own house ; and you have
no right — ”

“ What of that? She is the cause of all
this trouble. I could well wait ; but she is
wasting your money. Believe me, you had
best parry the blow. I wish to be paid
now. I won’t give you any further delay ;
because, for three months, you have been
living on your last resources. It won’t do.
You are in one of those conditions that
must be continued at any price. You
would burn the wood from your dying
mother’s bed to warm this creature’s feet.
What has become of the ten thousand
francs that you left with her the other
evening ? Who knows what you will at-
tempt, to procure money? The idea of
striving to ward it off fifteen days, three
days, perhaps but a single day more !
Open your eyes. I know the game well.
If you do not leave Juliette, you will
be ruined. Listen to a little good advice,
gratis. You must leave her, sooner or later,
mustn’t you ? Do it to-day, then.”

As you see, our worthy Clergeot never
minced the truth to his customers, when
they were not in the right path. If they
were displeased, so much the worse for
them : his conscience was at rest ; it was
not his affair, who never did a foolish thing
in his life.

Noel could bear it no longer ; and his
ill-humor burst forth.

“ Enough,” he cried decidedly. “Do as
you please, Monsieur Clergeot, but have
done with your advice. I prefer the sher-
iff’s plain prose. If I have committed im-
prudences, I can repair them, doubtless,
much to your surprise. Yes, Monsieur
Clergeot, I can find the twenty-two thou-
sand francs ; I can have a hundred thou-
sand to-morrow morning, if I see fit.
It will cost me the mere trouble of asking ;
but I do not see fit. My expenses, however
displeasing to you, must remain secret as *

109

heretofore. I do not wish that my embar-
rassment should be even suspected. I will not
relinquish, for your sake, the aim that I
have pursued, the very day it is in my
grasp.”

“ He resists,” thought the usurer ; “ he
is less deeply involved than I had im-
agined.”

“ So,” continued the advocate, “ take
your paper to the sheriff. In eight days, I
shall be summoned before the court of
commerce ; and I shall ask for twenty-five
days’ delay, which the judges always grant
to an embarrassed debtor. Twenty-five
and eight, all the world over, make just
thirty-three days. That is precisely the
respite I need. Let us resume ; accept
from me a bill of exchange for twenty-four
thousand francs in six weeks, or go at once
for the sheriff.”

“ And in six weeks,” replied the usurer,
“ you will be in precisely the same condition
you are to-day. And forty-five days more
of Juliette will — ”

“ Monsieur Clergeot,” answered Noel,
“ long before that time, my position will be
completely changed. But I have finished,”
he added rising ; “ and my time is valua-
ble.”

“ One moment, you impatient fellow,”
interrupted the good-natured banker, “ you
said twenty-four thousand francs in forty-
five days ? ”

“ Yes. That is about sixty-five per cent,
— pretty fair interest.”

“I neve? cavil about interest,” said
Clergeot ; “ but — ”

He looked sharply at Noel, rubbing his
chin violently, a movement which in him
indicated intense brain work.

“Only,” he continued, “ I should like to
know upon what you are counting.”

“ That I cannot tell you. You will know
it ere long, in common with all the
world.”

“ I have it,” cried Clergeot, — “I have
it ; you are going to marry. You have
found an heiress ; your little Juliette told
me something of that sort this morning.
Ah ! you are going to marry. Is she pretty ?
But what matters it? She has a full
purse, eh ? You wouldn’t take her with-
out that. Then you will keep house ? ”

“ I did not say so.”

“ That’s right. Be discreet. But I can
take a hint. One word more. Be care-
ful ; your little girl has a suspicion of the
truth. You are right ; it wouldn’t do to
be seeking money now. The slightest
mis-step would be sufficient to put your
father-in-law upon the track of your
financial position ; and you would lose the

110

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

girl. Marry, and settle down. But con-
ceal it from Juliette ; or I would not give
a hundred sous for your wedding. So it is
settled. Prepare a bill of exchange for
twenty-four thousand francs, and I will
bring your notes to you on Monday.”

“ You haven’t them with you, then ? ”

“ No. And, to be frank with you, I con-
fess that, knowing well I should get noth-
ing from you, I left them with others, —
with the sheriff. However, you may rest
easy ; you have my word.”

Clergeot made an appearance of retir-
ing ; but, just as he was going out, he
turned sharply around.

“I forgot,” said he; “while you are
about it, you can make the bill for twenty-
six thousand francs. Your little girl or-
dered some dresses, which I shall deliver
to-morrow : they may as well be paid in
the same way.”

The advocate began to remonstrate.
He would certainly not refuse to pay, only
he thought he ought to be consulted in the
purchase. He didn’t like this way of dis-
posing of his money.

“ What a fellow ! ” said the usurer,
shrugging his shoulders ; “ do you want to
make the girl unhappy ? You must keep
her in good humor ; think how she might
affect the marriage. And you know that,
if you need any advances for the wedding,
you have but to guarantee me. Speak to
your notary, and every thing shall be ar-
ranged. But I must go. On Monday,
then ? ”

Noel watched, to make sure that the usu-
rer had actually gone. When he saw that
he was not lingering on the staircase,

“ Fool ! ” he cried, “ miserable thieving old
skinflint ! He is on the wrong track, — the
track, however, that he himself chose
to pursue. It would be a fine thing, if
this should get to the count’s ears. Miser-
able usurer ! I feared for a while that I
should have to tell him all.”

While inveighing thus against his ban-
ker, the advocate looked at his watch.

“ Half-past five already,” he said.

His indecision was great. Should he
dine with his father ? Could he leave
Madame Gerdy ? He longed to dine at
the Commarin house ; yet, on the other
hand, to leave a dying woman 1

“ Decidedly,” he said, “ I can’t go.”

He sat down at his desk, and with all
haste wrote a letter of apology to his father.
Madame Gerdy, he wrote, might breathe
her last at any moment : he must remain
within call.

After he had bade the servant give
the note to a messenger, to carry it to the

count, a sudden thought occurred to
him.

“ Does madame’s brother,” he asked,
“ know that she is dangerously ill ? ”

“ I do not know, monsieur,” replied the
girl : “ at any rate, it was not my fault.”

“ What, did you not think to inform him,
in my absence ? Run to his house quickly.
Have him sought for, if he is not at home ;
bring him here.”

More tranquil after that, he went in to sit
in the sick room. The lamp was lighted ;
and the sister moved back and forth, put-
ting every thing in place, dusting and ar-
ranging. She wore an air of satisfaction,
that did not escape Noel.

“ Have we any gleam of hope, sister ? ”
he asked.

“ Perhaps,” replied the nun. “ The
priest has been here, monsieur : your dear
mother did not notice his presence ; but
he is coming back. That is not all. Since
the priest was here, the mustard has taken
admirably. The skin is quite reddened.

I am sure she feels.”

“ God grant it, sister ! ”

“ Oh, I have already been praying !
But it is important not to leave her
alone a minute. I have arranged all with
the maid. When the doctor comes, I shall
lie down, and she will watch until one in
the morning. I will then rise and — ”

“ You may both go and rest yourselves,
sister,” interrupted Noel. “ I shall not be
able to sleep: so I will watch all night.”

CHAPTER XIV.

Tabaret did not consider himself de-
feated, because he had been repulsed by
the judge of inquiry, when irritated by a
long day’s examination. You may call it
a fault, or an accomplishment; but the old
man was more obstinate than a mule. To
the excess of despair to which he suc-
cumbed in the gallery, there soon suc-
ceeded that firm resolution which upheld
him in danger. The feeling of duty took
possession of him. Was that a time to
yield to discouraging idleness, when the
life of a fellow-man hung on each moment ?
Inaction would be unpardonable. He had
plunged an innocent man into the abyss ;
and he must draw him out, — lie alone, if
no one would lend their aid. Pere Taba-
ret, as well as the judge, gave way to
weariness. On reaching the open air, he
perceived that he, too, had need of rest.
The emotions of the day had prevented

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

Ill

him from feeling hungry ; and, since morn-
ing, he had taken nothing but one glass of
water. He entered a restaurant on the
boulevard, and ordered supper.

While lie ate, not only his courage, but
his confidence came insensibly back to him.
It was with him, as with the rest of the
world : he who does not know how often
the course of his ideas may change, from
the beginning to the end of a repast,
should be very modest. A philosopher has
plainly demonstrated that heroism is but
an affair of the stomach.

The old fellow looked at the situation
in a much less sombre light. Was there
not plenty of time before him? What
could not such a man as he do in a month ?
Was his usual penetration to fail him now?
Certainly not. His great regret was, his
inability to let Albert know that some one
was working for him.

He was entirely another man, upon
leaving the table ; and it was with a
cheerful step that he walked towards the
Rue St. Lazare. Nine o’clock sounded, as
the porter opened the door for him. He
jumped up stairs four steps at a time, to
receive news of his old friend, of her
whom he used formerly to call the excel-
lent, the worthy Madame Gerdv.

Noel opened the door to him, — Noel,
who had doubtless been thinking of the
past ; for he looked as sad as though the
dying woman was really his mother.

In consequence of this unexpected cir-
cumstance, Pere Tabaret for a few mo-
ments could not help thinking of certain
difficulties which he should experience.

He knew very well, that, finding himself
with the advocate, he would be unavoida-
bly led to speak of the Lerouge affair;
and how could he do this, knowing, as he
did, the particulars much better than his
young friend himself, without exposing
himself to betrayal ? But a single impru-
dent word would reveal the part he was
playing in this sad drama. Now it was
from his dear Noel, the future Viscount de
Commarin, above all others, that he wished
entirely to conceal his connection with the
police.

But, on the other hand, he thirsted to
know what had passed between the advo-
cate and the count. This single point pos-
sessed an interest that aroused his curiosi-
ty. At last, as he could not restrain its
gratification, he resolved to keep close
watch upoji his language and remain con-
stantly on his guard.

The advocate took the old man into
Madame Gerdv’s room. Her condition,
since afternoon, had changed a little ; it

was impossible to say whether for good or
bad. One thing was evident, her depres-
sion was less profound. Her eyes still re-
mained fixed ; but certain quiverings of
the lids were evident. She moved on her
pillow, and moaned feebly.

“ What does the doctor say ? ” asked
Pere Tabaret, in that low whisper one un-
consciously takes in a sick room.

“ He is just gone/’ replied Noel ; “ be-
fore long all will be over.”

The old man advanced on tip-toe, and
looked at the dying woman with evident
emotion.

“Poor woman !” he murmured; “the
good God is merciful in taking her. She
perhaps suffers; but what is this pain,
compared to what she would feel if she
knew that her son, her true son, was in
prison, accused of murder ? ”

“ That is what I keep repeating to my-
self,” said Noel, “ to console me for this
sifffit; for I always loved her, my old
friend : for me, she is still my mother.
You have heard me upbraid her, have you
not? I have twice treated her very harsh-
ly. I thought I hated her; but here, at
the moment of losing her, I forget every
wjong she has done me, only to remember
her tenderness. Yes, much better death
for her 1 And yet I cannot think, no, I
cannot think her son guilty.”

“ What 1 is it possible, you, too ? ”

Pere Tabaret put so much warmth and
vivacity into this exclamation, that Noel
looked at him with a sort of wonder. He
felt the color rising in his cheeks, and he
hastened to explain himself. “ I said,

1 you, too,’ ” he continued. “ because that I,
thanks perhaps to my inexperience, am
persuaded of the innocence of this young
man. I cannot in .the least imagine a man
of that rank meditating and accomplishing
so cowardly a crime. I have spoken with
many persons on this matter which has
made so much noise ; and everybody is of
my opinion. He has public opinion in his
favor ; that is already something.”

Seated near the bed, sufficiently far
from the lamp to be in the shadow, the
nun hastily knitted stockings destined for
the poor. It was a purely mechanical
work ; during which she usually prayed.
But, since the entrance of Pere Tabaret,
she forgot, in listening, her everlasting
prayer. What did this conversation
mean ? Who could this woman be ? And
this young man who was not her son, and
who yet called her mother, and at the
same time spoke of a veritable son accused
of being an assassin ? Before this she had
overheard mysterious remarks between

112

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

Noel and the doctor. Into what singular
house had she fallen ? She was a little
afraid ; and her conscience was sorely
troubled. Was she not sinning? She re-
solved to tell all to the priest, when he re-
turned.

“ No,” said Noel, — “ no, Tabaret ; Al-
bert has not public opinion with him. We
are sharper than that in France, you must
know. When a poor devil is arrested, en-
tirely innocent, perhaps, of the crime
charged against him, we usually throw
stones at him. We keep all our pity for
him, who, without doubt the criminal,
comes before the court of assizes. As
long as justice hesitates, we side with the
prosecution against the prisoner. The
moment she announces that the man is a
criminal, all our sympathies are in favor
of acquitting him. That’s public opinion
You understand, however, that that affects
me but little. I despise it to such an ex-
tent, that if, as I dare still hope, Albert is
not released, I will be his defender. Yes,
I have told my father as much, the Count
de Commarin. I will be his advocate ; 1
will save him.”

Gladly would the old man have thrown
himself on Noel’s neck. He longed to say
to him, “ We two will save him.” But he
restrained himself. Would not the advo-
cate misunderstand him, if he confessed ?
He resolved, however, to reveal all if it
became necessary, and if Albert’s interests
took a more dangerous turn. For the pre -
sent, he contented himself with strongly
approving his young friend.

“ Bravo 1 my child,” said he ; “ you
have a noble heart. I feared to see you
spoiled by wealth and rank. Pardon me ;
you remain, I see, what you have always
been in your humble position. But, tell
me, have you, then, seen your father, the
count ? ”

Now, for the first time, Noel seemed to
notice the eyes of the sister ; which,
lighted by eager curiosity, glittered in the
shadow like carbuncles. By a look, he
pointed her out to the old man, and said, —

“I have seen him; and every thing is
arranged to my satisfaction. I will tell
you all, in detail, by-and-by, when we are
more by ourselves. By this bedside, I
almost blush at my happiness.”

Tabaret was obliged to content himself
with this reply and this promise. Seeing
that he should learn nothing this evening,
he spoke of going to bed, declaring him-
self wearied out, as the result of certain
things he had had to do during the day.
Noel did not urge his remaining. He
himself was waiting, he said, for Madame

Gerdy’s brother, who had been sent for
several times without finding him in. He
would be much embarrassed, he added, in
this brother’s presence ; he did not yet
know what conduct he ought to pursue.
Should he tell him all? But that would
only increase his grief. On the other
hand, silence obliged him to play a diffi-
cult part. The old man advised him to
keep silent, to put off all explanation until
later.

“ What a fine fellow is this Noel ! ” mur-
mured Pere Tabaret, on gaining his apart-
ments as gently as possible.

He had been absent from home twenty-
four hours ; and he had to go through a
formidable scene with his household.
Mannette was in a particularly bad humor:
so she declared decidedly, and once for all,
that she would get a new place, if her
master did not change his conduct.

She had remained awake all night, in a
terrible fright, listening to the least sound
on the stairway, expecting to see her mas-
ter brought home on a litter, assassinated.
Then there had been great commotion in the
house. M. Gerdy had gone out a short
time after monsieur, and had returned two
hours after. After he had come in, there
had been constant inquiries for the doctor.
Such goings on would be the death of her,
without forgetting her temperament, which
could not endure these constant worries.
But Mannette forgot that the worry was
not on her master’s account nor on Noel’s,
but for a little affair of her own, — one of
those handsome guards of Paris having
promised to marry her, but for whom she
had waited in vain, — the rascal !

She burst forth in reproaches, while she
was laying the table for her master, too
frank, she declared, to keep any thing on
her mind, and keep her mouth closed,
when she felt so much interest in monsieur,
in his health and reputation. Monsieur
made no reply, not being in the mood for
argument. He bent his head to the squall,
turning his back to the storm. But, when
Mannette had finished her preparations,
he shoved her out of the room without
ceremony, and double locked the door.

He busied himself in forming a new line
of battle, and in deciding upon prompt
and active measures. Rapidly he analyzed
the situation. Had he been deceived in
his investigations ? No. Had his calcula-
tions of probabilities been erroneous ? No.
He had started with a positive fact, the
murder. He had discovered the particulars ;
his inferences were correct, and must in-
evitably point at a criminal such as he had
indicated : and this criminal could not be

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

113

Monsieur Daburon’s prisoner. His confi-
dence in a judicial axiom had led him
astray, when he pointed out Albert.

“ See,” thought he, “ where their standard
opinions and absurd axioms, all cut and
dried, lead us, when they arc foolishly
followed, like the landmarks on a road !
Left free to my own inspirations, I formed
this case very profoundly. I did not trust
to chance. The formula, ‘ Seek out the
one whom the crime benefits ’ may be as
often absurd as true. The heirs of a man
assassinated are in reality all benefited by
a murder ; while the assassin receives at
most the watch or purse of the victim.
Three persons were interested in the death
of the Widow Lerouge, — Albert, Madame
Gerdy, and the Count de Commarin. It
is plain to sec that Albert is not the crim-
inal. It is not Madame Gerdy, who has
been killed by the unexpected announce-
ment of the crime. There remains, then,
the count. Can it be he ? He certainly
did not do it himself. He hired some
wretch, — a wretch of good position, if you
please, wearing well- varnished boots of a
good make, and smoking trabucos with an
amber mouth-piece. These villains of good
position ordinarily lack nerve. They cheat,
they forge ; but they don’t assassinate.
But here the count would simply exchange
a rabbit for a hare. He would merely sub-
stitute one accomplice for another still more
dangerous. That would be idiotic ; and
the count is an intelligent man. He is,
therefore, out of the question. I shall have
to start off on anolhjr tack.

“ Another thing, the Widow Lerouge,
who so dexterously exchanged the children
while nursing them, would be very likely
to undertake a number of dangerous com-
missions. Who can prove that she has
not made it, before now, the interest of
some one else to get her out of the way ?
There is a mystery here. I am impatient ;
but I have not yet unraveled it. One
thing is sure though, she was not assassina-
ted to prevent Noel from recovering his
rights. She must have been suppressed
for some analogous reason, by a bold, expe-
rienced scoundrel, who wore the clothing I
fixed upon Albert. It is, then, this scent
I must follow. And, above all, I must
have the* past history of this obliging
widow : and I will have it, too ; for the in-
vestigations ordered at her birthplace will
be in court to-morrow.”

Returning now to Albert, Pere Tabaret
weighed the charges which were brought
against the young man, and reckoned the
chances which he still had.

“ From the look of things,” he murmured,
8

“I sec only luck and myself; that is to
say, absolutely nothing in his favor at
present. As to the charges, they arc
countless. However, it is no use going
over them. It is I who amassed them”
and I know what they are worth ! At
once every thing and nothing. What do
signs prove, however striking they may be,
in this case, where one ought to disbelieve
even the witness of his own senses ? Al-
bert is a victim of the most remarkable co-
incidences ; but one word might explain
them. I have seen many just such cases.
It was even worse in the affair of my little
tailor. At five o’clock, he bought a knife,
which he showed to ten of his friends, say-
ing, this is for my wife, who is an idle jade,
and who plays me false with my servants.
In the evening, the neighbor heard a terri-
ble quarrel between the couple, — cries,
threats, stamping, blows; then suddenly
all was quiet. The next day, the tailor had
disappeared from his house ; and they dis-
covered the woman dead, with the very
same knife buried to the hilt between her
shoulders. Ah, Veil 1 it turned out it was
not the husband who had planted it there ;
it was a jealous lover. After that, what is
to be believed ? Albert, it is true, will not
give an account of how he passed the even-
ing. That does not affect me. The ques-
tion for me is not to prove where he was,
but that he was not at Jonchere. Perhaps,
after all, Gevrol was on the right track. I
hope so, from the bottom of my heart. Yes ;
God grant that he may be successful. My
vanity and my mad presumption will de-
serve the slight punishment of his triumph
over me. What would I not give to estab-
lish this man’s innocence ? Half of my for-
tune would be but a small sacrifice. If I
should be foiled ; if, after having caused
the evil, I should find myself powerless to
undo it 1 ”

Pcrc Tabaret went to bed, shuddering
at this last thought. He fell asleep, and
had a terrible nightmare.

Lost in that vulgar crowd, which, on the
days when society revenges itself, presses
about the Place dc la Roquette and watches
the last convulsions of one condemned to
death, he attended Albert’s execution. Pie
saw the unhappy boy, his hands bound
behind his back, his collar turned down,
ascend, supported by a priest, the steep
flight of stairs leading to the scaffold. He
saw him upright upon the fatal platform,
throwing his pious gaze upon the dismayed
assembly. Soon the eyes of the condemned
man met his own ; and, breaking his cords,
he pointed him, Tabaret, out in the crowd,
saying, in a loud voice, “ There is my as-

114

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

sassiu.” Then a great clamor arose to
curse him. He wished to escape ; but his
feet were nailed to the ground. He tried
to close his eyes ; he could not. A force
unknown and irresistible compelled him to
look. Then Albert again cried out, “ I am
innocent ; the guilty one is — ” He pro-
nounced some name : the crowd repeated
the name; and he alone did not under-
stand it. Finally the head of the con-
demned man fell.

The old man gave a loud cry, and awoke
in a cold perspiration. It took him some
time to convince himself that nothing was
real of this which he had felt and seen, and
that he was actually in his own house, in
his own bed : it was only a dream 1 But
•dreams sometimes are, they say, warnings
from heaven. His imagination was in that
excited condition that he made unheard of
efforts’ to recall the name of the criminal
pronounced by Albert. Not succeeding, he
got up and lighted his candle. The dark-
ness made him afraid. The night peoples
itself with phantoms. It was no longer
with him a question of sleep. Beset with
these anxieties, he accused himself most
severely, and harshly reproached the oc-
cupation he had until now so delighted in.
Poor humanity !

He was mad to fix the day when it first
came into his head to seek employment in
the Rue Benjamin Frere, — noble hobby,
truly, for a man of his age, a good quiet citi-
zen of Paris, rich, and esteemed by all ! And
to think that he had been proud of his ex-
ploits, that he had boasted of his cunning,
that he had plumed himself on his keenness
of scent, that he had been flattered by that
ridiculous soubriquet, ‘ Tirauclair.’ Old
fool ! What had he gained from the busi-
ness of bloodhound? All sorts of annoy-
ance, the contempt of the world, without
counting the danger of contributing to the
conviction of an innocent man. Why had
he not taken warning by the case of the
little tailor V

Recalling the few satisfactions of the
past, and comparing them with the present
anguish, he resolved that he would have no
more to do with it. Albert once saved, he
would seek some amusement less danger-
ous, and more generally appreciated. He
would break the connection of which he
was ashamed, and the police and justice
might go on without him.

At last the day, which he had awaited
with feverish impatience, dawned. To
pass the time, he dressed himself slowly,
with much care, trying to occupy his mind
with little details, until an hour had passed ;
during which he had looked twenty times

at the clock, to see if it had not stopped.
In spite of all this delay, it was not eight
o’clock when he caused himself to be an-
nounced at the judge’s door, praying him to
excuse, on account of the importance of his
business, a visit too early not to be unwel-
come.

Excuses were superfluous. They did not
disturb Monsieur Daburon at eight in the
morning. Already he was at work. He
received, with his usual kindness, the old
amateur detective, and even joked with
him a little on his absurdity of the night
before. Who would have thought his
nerves so sensitive ? Doubtless the night
had brought deliberation. Had he recov-
ered his old good sense ? or had he put his
hand on the true criminal ?

This trifling tone in a magistrate, who
was accused of being grave even to a fault,
troubled the old man. Did not this quiz-
zing hide a determination to neglect all
that he could say ? He believed it did ;
and it was without the least deception that
he commenced his pleading.

He put the case more calmly this time,
but with all the energy of a well-digested
conviction. He addressed himself to the
heart, he spoke to the reason ; but, although
doubt is essentially contagious, he neither
succeeded in convincing the judge, nor
shaking his opinion. His strongest argu-
ments were of no more avail against Dabu-
ron’s absolute conviction than bullets of
crumbs of bread against a breastplate. And,
at his failure, he was in no way surprised.

Pere Tabaret had on his side only a sub-
tle theory, words ; Daburon possessed pal-
pable testimony, facts. And such was this
cause, that all the reasons brought forward
by the old man to justify Albert simply
reacted upon him, and confirmed his guilt.

A repulse at the judge’s hands had en-
tered too much into Tabaret’s calculations
for him to appear troubled or discouraged.
He declared that, for the present, he would
insist no more : he had full confidence in
the wisdom and impartiality of the judge
of inquiry. It suffioed him to have put him
on his guard against the influences which
j he himself had unfortunately used in work-
| ing up the case.

He was going, he added, to busy himself
with hunting up “ new signs.” They were
| only at the beginning of the inquiry ; and
i they were yet ignorant of very many
j things, even of the past life of the Widow
Lerouge. New facts may come to light.
Who knows what testimony the man with
the rings in his ears, who was now being
pursued by Gevrol, may give. All enraged
within, and longing to injure in some way

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

the “ idiot magistrate,” as he called the
judge, Pere Tabaret forced himself to be
humble and polite. He wished, lie said, to
keep track of the examination, and to be
informed of the result of future investiga-
tions. He finally ended by asking perrnis-
sion to communicate with Albert. He
thought his services deserved this slight
favor. He wished an interview of only tbn
minutes without witnesses.

Daburon refused this request. He de-
clared, that, for the present, the prisoner
must continue to remain strictly in solitary
confinement.

As a sort of consolation, he added that,
in three or four days, he might perhaps be
able to change this decision, provided the
motives which caused it no longer existed.

“ Your refusal is cruel, monsieur,” said
Pere Tabaret ; “ but I understand it, and
obey.”

That was his only complaint; and he
withdrew almost immediately, fearing that
he could no longer master his irritation.

He felt, that, besides the great happiness
of saving an innocent man, compromised
by his imprudence, he should experience
an unspeakable delight in avenging him-
self upon the stubbornness of the judge.

“ Three or four days,” he muttered,
“that is to say, three or four years for the
unfortunate prisoner. He speaks quite at
his ease, this kind magistrate. But Albert
ought to know the truth now.”

Yes, Daburon only asked three or four
days to wring a confession from Albert, or
at least to make him change his system of
defence.

The difficulty of the prosecution was in
not being able to produce any witness
who had seen the prisoner on the evening
of Shrove Tuesday.

One deposition alone to that effect would
have so great weight, that Daburon, upon
Tabaret’s departure, turned all his efforts
in that direction.

He had great hope yet. It was now
only Saturday. The day of the murder
was remarkable enough to fix people’s
imemories ; and there had not been time
yet to set on foot a proper investigation.

Five of the most experienced spies in
the secret service were sent to Bougival,
supplied with photographs of Albert.
They were to scour the entire country be-
tween Reuil and Jonchere, to hunt, inquire
into, and examine, to obtain the most
precise and the most minute information.
The photographs would greatly aid their
efforts. They had orders to show them
everywhere and to everybody, and even to
leave a dozen in the place, being furnished

115

with a sufficient number to do so. It was
impossible, that, on an evening when so
many people were about, no one had ob-
served the original of the picture either at
the station at Reuil or upon one of the
roads which led to Jonchere, — the high-
way, or the road by the water’s edge.

These arrangements made, the judge of
inquiry proceeded to the palais de justice,
and 6ent for his prisoner.

He had already in the morning received
a report, informing him hour by hour of
the deeds, gestures, and utterances of the
prisoner, carefully watched. Nothing in
him, the report said, declared the criminal.
He appeared sad, but not despairing. He
had not cried out, nor threatened, nor
cursed at justice, nor even spoke of the
fatal deed. After having eaten lightly, he
went to the window of his cell, and had there
remained standing for more than an hour.
Then he laid down, and had quietly gone
to sleep.

“ What an iron constitution ! ” thought
Daburon, when the prisoner entered his
office.

Albert was no longer the despairing
man, who the night before, dizzy with the
multiplicity of charges, overcome by the
rapidity of the blows, had writhed beneath
the gaze of the judge of inquiry, and ap-
peared ready to faint. Innocent or guilty,
his course had been taken ; his face left no
doubt of that. His eyes expressed that
resolution, careless of a sacrifice freely
made, and a certain haughtiness which
might be taken for disdain, but which ex-
pressed the noble feeling of an injured
man. In him was seen a man self-reliant,
who might be shaken but never overcome
by misfortune.

At this countenance, the judge knew
that he must change his mode of attack.
He recognized one of those natures, which,
attacked, was only provoked to resistance,
and, threatened, was only rendered obsti-
nate. Renouncing his efforts to frighten,
he attempted to soften him. It was a hack-
neyed trick, but one always successful,
like certain pathetic scenes at theatres.
The criminal who has girt up his energy
to sustain the shock of intimidation, finds
himself without defence against the wheed-
ling of kindness, the greater in proportion
to its lack of sincerity. Now tenderness
would cause Daburon’s triumph. What
an avowal he knew would burst forth in
tears 1 No one knew so well as he. how to
touch the cords which vibrate still even
in the most abandoned heart, — honor,
love, family.

To Albert, he became kind and friendly,

116

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

full of the liveliest compassion. Unfortu-
nate man ! how much he had had to suffer,
— lie whose whole life had been like one
long enchantment. How every thing had
fallen about him in ruins, at a single blow !
Who could have foreseen all this in the.
time when he was the one hope of a wealthy
and illustrious house ! Calling up the past,
the judge pictured to him the most touch-
ing reminiscences of his early youth, and
stirred up the ashes of all his extinct affec-
tions. Using and abusing all that he
knew of the life of the prisoner, he mar-
tyred himself by the most mournful allu-
sions to Claire. How could he persist in
bearing alone his great misfortune ? Had
he no one in the world who would deem it
happiness to share his sufferings? Why
this morose silence ? Should he not rather
hasten to rescue her whose very life de-
pended upon his? What was necessary
to that end ? But a single word. Then
he would be, if not free, at least returned
to the world. His prison would become an
habitable abode, no longer solitary; his
friends would visit him : he might receive
whomever he saw fit.

It was no longer a judge who spoke ; it
was a father, who still keeps in his heart
indulgence for his son.

Daburon went on. He would for a mo-
ment imagine himself in Albert’s position.
What would be his condition after the ter-
rible discovery ? He would scarcely dare
question himself. He would dwell upon
the murder of the Widow Lerouge ; he
would explain it to himself ; he would al-
most excuse it. (Another trap.) It was
certainly an enormous crime, but not one
revolting to conscience or to reason. It was
one of those crimes which society might, if
not forget, at least forgive up to a certain
point, because the motive was not a dis-
graceful one. What tribunal would fail to
find extenuating circumstances for a mo-
ment of frenzy so excusable? For was
not the first the greatest criminal, the
Count de Commarin ? Was it not his folly
that prepared the way for this terrible de-
nouement? His son had been the victim
of a fatality, and was in the highest degree
to be pitied.

Upon this text, Daburon spoke for a long
time, seeking those things most suitable in
his opinion to soften the hardened heart of
an assassin. And he arrived always at
the same conclusion, — the wisdom of con-
fessing. But he wasted his eloquence pre-
cisely as Tabarct had wasted his. Albert
appeared in no way affected. His replies
were of the shortest. He began and ended,
as at first, in protesting his innocence.

One test, which had often given the de-
sired result, now remained to be tried.

On this same day, Saturday, Albert was
confronted with the corpse ot the Widow
Lerouge. He appeared impressed by the
sad sight, but no more than any one would
be, if forced to look at the victim of an as-
sassination four days after the crime. One
of the bystanders exclaiming, —

“Ah, if she could but speak!” he re-
plied, “ That would be great good fortune
for me.”

Since morning, Daburon had not ob-
tained the least advantage. He had to ac-
knowledge the failure of his plot ; and
here this last attempt had grounded. The
unmoved calmness of the prisoner filled to
overflowing the exasperation of this man
so sure of his facts. His spite was evident
to all, when, dropping suddenly his wheed-
ling, he harshly gave the orders to re-con-
duct the prisoner to his cell.

“I will compel him to confess,” he
ground between his teeth.

Perhaps he regretted those gentle instru-
ments of investigation of the middle ages,
which compelled the prisoner to say what-
ever they wanted him to. Never, thought he,
did any one ever meet a prisoner like this.
What could he reasonably hope for from
this system of persistent denial ? This ob-
stinacy, absurd in the presence of absolute
proofs, drove the judge into a rage.
Albert, confessing his guilt, would have
found him disposed to pitv ; denying it, he
opposed himself to an implacable enemy.

It was the very falseness of the situation
which misled and blinded this magistrate,
naturally so kind and generous. Having
previously wished Albert innocent, he now
absolutely longed to prove him guilty, and
that for a hundred reasons which he was
unable to analyze- He remembered, too,
his having had the Viscount de Commarin
for a rival, and his having nearly assassi-
nated him. Had he not repented even
with remorse liis having signed the war-
rant of arrest, and accepted the duty of in-
tivestigation ? Tabaret’s incomprehensible
change troubled him, too.

All these feelings, combined, inspired
Daburon with a feverish hatred, urging
him on in the path which he had chosen.
In future, it would be less the proofs of
Albert’s guilt which lie sought for than the
justification of his own conduct to himself
as judge. The investigation rankled, as if
it were a personal matter.

In fact, were the prisoner innocent, lie
would become inexcusable in his own eyes ;
and, in proportion as lie reproached himself
I the more severely, and as the feelings of his

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

117

own wrongs grew, he was the more disposed
to try every tiling to conquer this ancient
rival, even to abusing his own power. The
logic of events urgedi him on. It seemed as
though his honor itself were at stake ; and
he displayed a passionate activity, such as
had never been seen before in any inves-
tigation.

All Sunday, Daburon passed in listening
to the reports of his agents at Bougival.

They had spared no trouble, they stated ;
but they could report no new developments.

They had heard many speak of a woman,
who had pretended, they said, to have seen
the assassin leaving the Widow Lerouge’s
house ; but no one had been able to point
this woman out to them, or even to give
them her name.

But they all thought it their duty to in-
form the judge that another inquiry was
going on at the same time with theirs.
It was under the charge of Pere Tabaret,
who personally scoured the country in all
directions in a cabriolet drawn by a very
swift horse. He must have acted with
great promptness; for, everywhere that
they presented themselves, he had antici-
ated them. He appeared to have under
is orders a dozen men, four of whom at
least certainly belonged to the Rue Jerusa-
lem. All the agents had met him ; and he
had spoken to all of them. To one, he had
said, —

“ What the devil are you showing this
photograph for ? In less than no time you
will pick up a witness, who, to gain three
francs, will describe some one more like
the picture than the picture itself.”

He had met another agent on the road,
and had laughed at him.

“You are a simple fellow,” he cried out
to him, “ to hunt for a hiding man in the
highway ; look a little aside, and you may
find him.”

Finally he had accosted two who were
together in a cafe at Bougival, and had
taken them aside.

I have him,” he said to them. “ He is
a smart fellow ; he passed by Chatois.
Three people have seen him, — two railway
employes, and a third person whose testi-
mony will be decisive ; for she spoke to
him. He was smoking.”

Daburon was so angry at this with
Pere Tabaret, that, on the instant he
started for Bougival, firmly resolved to
bring this too zealous man back to Paris,
and to give him some occupation more in
the interests of justice. This trip was use-
less. Tabaret, cabriolet, swift horse, and
the twelve men had all disappeared, or at
least were not to be found.

On returning home, much fatigued and
very angry, the judge of inquiry found the
following despatch from the chief of the
detective force ; it was brief, and to the
point, —

“ Rouen, Sunday.

“ The man is found. This evening we
start for Paris. The most valuable testi-
mony. Gevrol.”

CHAPTER XV.

Monday morning, at nine o’clock, Dab-
uron was preparing to start for the palais
de justice, where he expected to find Gev-
rol and his man, and perhaps Pere Taba-
ret.

His preparations were nearly made, when
his servant announced that a young lady,
accompanied by another more elderly,
asked to speak with him.

She declined giving her name, saying,
however, that she would not refuse it, if
that was absolutely necessary in order to
be received.

“ Let her enter,” said the judge.

He thought it might be a relation of
some one of the prisoners, with whose busi-
ness he had been employed before the Jon-
clicre crime occurred. He determined to
make short work of her, if she were trouble-
some.

He was standing before his mantel, hunt-
ing for an address in a plate filled with vis-
iting cards. At the sound of the opening
of the door, at the rustling of a silk dress
gliding by the window, he did not take the
trouble to move, did not deign even to turn
his head. He contented himself with
merely casting a careless glance into the
mirror.

But he immediately started with a move-
ment of dismay, as if he had seen a ghost.
In his confusion, he dropped the card-plate,
which fell noisily to the hearth, and broke
into a thousand pieces.

“ Claire,” he stammered, “ Claire ! ”

And, as if he feared equally either his
being deceived by an illusion or the actu-
ally seeing her whose name he pronounced,
he turned slowly.

It was truly Mademoiselle d’Arlanges.

This young girl, usually so proud and re-
served, had had courage to come to his house
alone, or almost alone ; for her governess,
whom she had left in the antechamber,
counted as no one. She was obeying some
powerful emotion ; since it made her for-
get her habitual timidity.

Never, even in the time when a sight of

118

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

her was his greatest happiness, had she ap-
peared more fascinating. Her beauty, or-
dinarily veiled by a sweet sadness, beamed
forth, and dazzled him. Her features had
an animation which he had never seen in
them before. In her eyes, rendered more
brilliant by recent tears, even now hardly
wiped away, shone the noblest resolution.
One could see that she was conscious of
having a great duty to perform, and that
she would accomplish it, if not with pleas-
ure, at least with that simplicity which in
her was heroism.

She advanced calm and dignified, and
held out her hand to the magistrate in that
English style that some ladies can imitate
so gracefully.

“ We have always been friends, have we
not ? ” she said with a sad smile.

The magistrate did not dare take the
ungloved hand she held out to him. It
was as much as he dared to touch the end
of her fingers, as if he feared too great
an emotion.

“ Yes,” he replied indistinctly, “ I have
been always devoted to you.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges sat down in the
easy chair, where, two nights previously,
Pere Tabaret had planned Albert’s arrest.

“ Do you know why I have come ? ”
asked the young girl.

With a nod, he replied in the affirma-
tive

He divined her object only too easily ;
and he was asking himself, in fact, whether
he ought to resist prayers from such a
mouth. What could she ask that he
would have the heart to refuse ? Ah, if he
had foreseen this !

“ I only knew of this dreadful story yes-
terday,” pursued Claire ; “ they considered
it wise to hide it from me ; and, but for my
devoted Schmidt, I should yet be ignorant
of it all. What a night have I passed ! I
was at first terrified ; but, when they told
me that all depended upon you, my fears
were dispelled. It is for my sake, is it
not ? that you have taken charge of this
trial ? Oh, you are a noble man ! How can
I ever express my thanks ! ”

What humiliation for the honest magis-
trate were these heartfelt thanks 1 Yes, he
had at first thought of Mademoiselle d’Ar-
langes ; but since — He bowed his head,
to avoid that beautiful sight of Claire, so
pure, so daring.

“ Do not thank me, mademoiselle,” he
stammered ; “ I have not the claim that
you think upon your gratitude.”

Claire had already noticed the magis-
trate’s agitation. The trembling of liis
voice attracted her attention ; but she did

not suspect the cause. She thought that
her presence recalled sad memories, that
he doubtless still loved her, and that he
was suffering for her. This idea saddened
her, and filled her with self-reproach.

“ And yet, monsieur,” she continued, “ l
thank you all the same. I should never
have dared go to another judge, to
speak to an entire stranger 1 For what
value would he attach to my words, not
knowing me ? While you, you, so gener-
ous, will reassure me, will tell me by what
unhappy mistake he has been arrested and
put in prison.”

“ Alas ! ” sighed the magistrate, so low
that Claire scarcely heard or understood
the terrible meaning of the exclamation.

“With you,” she continued, “I do not
fear. You are my friend, you have told
me ; you will not refuse my prayers. Give
him his liberty quickly. I do not know
exactly of what he is accused; but I
swear to you that he is innocent.”

Claire spoke in the positive manner of
one who saw no obstacle in the way to the
very simple and natural desire which she had
expressed. A formal assurance given bv her
ought to be amply sufficient ; in a word, Dab-
uron was to repair every thing. The judge
was silent. He admired this saint-like ig-
norance of every thing, this artless and
frank confidence which doubted nothing.
She had commenced by wounding him in-
advertently, it is true ; but he quite forgot
that.

He was really honest, good as the best,
as is proved from the fact, that, at the mo-
ment of unveiling the fatal truth, he shud-
dered. He hesitated to pronounce the
words, whose breath, like a whirlwind,
would overturn the fragile edifice of this
young girl’s happiness. Humiliated, de-
spised, he was going to have his revenge ;
but it brought him no satisfaction.

“ And it I should tell you, mademoiselle,”
he commenced, “ that Albert is not inno-
cent — ”

She half-raised herself with a protesting
gesture. He continued, —

“ If I should tell you that he is guilty ? ”

“ O monsieur ! ” interrupted” Claire,

“ you cannot think it.”

“ I do think it, mademoiselle,” continued
the magistrate in a sad voice ; “ and I must
add that I am morally certain of it.”

Claire looked at the magistrate with pro-
found amazement. Can this really be- he
who is speaking to her? Did she hear
him aright? Did she understand? She
was really in doubt. Had he answered
seriously ? Was he not abusing her by an
I unworthy, cruel jest ? She asked herself this

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

119

with a sort of wildness ; for every thing ap-
peared possible, probable, rather than°that
which he had spoken.

Not daring to raise his eyes, he continued
in a tone, expressive of the sincerest pity, —

“ I suffer cruelly for you at this moment,
mademoiselle ; but I have the sad courage
to tell you the truth, and you must sum-
mon yours to hear it. Much better that
you should know all from the mouth of a
friend. Summon, then, all your fortitude ;
strengthen your noble soul against a most
dreadful misfortune. No, there is no mis-
take. Justice has not been deceived.
The Viscount de Commarin is accused ot an
assassination ; and it is absolutely — abso-
lutely, understand me — proved that he
committed it.”

Like a doctor, who pours out drop by
drop a dangerous medicine, Daburon pro-
nounced slowly, word by word, this last sen-
tence. He watched carefully the result,
ready to cease, if the shock was too great.
He did not suppose that this young girl,
timid to excess, with a sensitiveness almost
a disease, would be able to hear without
flinching such a revelation. He expected
a burst of despair, tears, distressing cries.
She might perhaps faint away ; and he
stood ready to call in the good Schmidt.

He was deceived. Claire drew herself
up full of energy and valor. The flame of
indignation flushed her cheeks, and dried
her tears.

“ It is false,” she cried ; “ and those who
say it are liars. He cannot be ; no, he can-
not be an assassin. If he were here, and
should himself say, ‘It is true/ I should
refuse to believe it : I should still cry out,
‘ It is false.’ ”

“ He has not yet confessed it,” continued
the judge ; “ but he will confess it : and, it
not, there are more proofs than are needed
to convict him. The charges against him
are as impossible to deny as is the sun
which shines upon us.”

“ Ah ! well,” interrupted Mademoiselle
d’Arlanges, in a voice which thrilled his
soul, “ I assert, I repeat, that justice is de-
ceived. Yes,” she persisted, stopping a
gesture of denial from the judge, — “yes,
he is innocent. I am sure ot it ; and I will
proclaim it, even were the whole world to
join with you in accusing him. Do you not
see that I understand him better than he
can understand himself Y that my faith in
him is absolute, as that which I have in
God? that I would doubt myself before
doubting him ? ”

The judge of inquiry attempted timidly
to make an° objection. Claire interrupted

him, —

“ You force me, then, monsieur,” said she,
“ in order to overcome you, to forget that I
am a young girl, and that I am not talking to
my mother, but to a man. For his sake, I
can bear it ! It is four years, monsieur,
since we first loved, and told each other of it.
Since that time, I have not kept from him
one of my thoughts : he has not hid from
me one of his. For four years, we have
never had a secret between us : he lived in
me, as I lived in him. I alone can say
how worthy he is to be loved ; I alone know
all that grandeur of soul, nobility of
thought, generosity of sentiment, from
which you have so easily made an assassin.
And I have seen him, oh ! so unhappy, while
all the world envied his lot. He was like
me, alone in the world; his father never
loved him. Sustained one by the other,
we have passed many a sad day ; and it is
at the very moment our trial was ending
that he has become a criminal. Why ?
tell me why ? ”

“ Neither the name nor fortune of the
Count de Commarin would descend to him,
mademoiselle; and the knowledge of it
came upon him with a sudden shock. One
old woman alone was able to prove this.
To protect his position, he killed her.”

“ What infamous,” cried the young girl,
“ what shameful, wicked calumny ! I know,
monsieur, this story of falling greatness ;
he himself told me of it. It is true, that
for three days this misfortune unmanned
him ; but, if he was dismayed, it was on my
account more than his own. He was dis-
tressed at thinking that perhaps I should
be grieved, when he confessed to me that
he could no longer give me all that his
love dreatned of. I grieved ? Ah ! what
to me is this great name, this immense
wealth ? I owe to them all the unhappiness
of my life. Was it, then, for their sake that
I loved him ? It was thus that I replied to
him ; and he, so sad, immediately recovered
his gayety. He thanked me, saying, ‘ You
love me; the rest is of no consequence.’
I chided him, then, for having doubted me ;
and, after that, would he thus cowardly
assassinate an old woman ? You dare not
repeat it.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges ceased, a smile
of victory on her lips. That smile meant,
“At last I have attained my end: you
are conquered ; what can you reply to all
that I have said ? ”

The judge of inquiry did not long leave
this smiling illusion to the unhappy child.
He did not perceive the cruelty, the shock
of his persistence. Always the one idea.
In persuading Claire, he would justify his
own conduct to himself.

120

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“You do not know, mademoiselle,” be
continued, “ what giddiness may overthrow
the reason of an honest man. It is only at
the time a thing escapes us that we feel the
greatness of the loss. God keep me irom
doubting all that which you have said ! but
icture to yourself the immensity of the
low which has fallen upon M. de Comma-
rin. Think of the despair to which he was
driven on leaving you, and the extremities
to which it might lead him 1 He might
have had a moment of wildness, and have
done the deed without perceiving its enor-
mity. In this way the crime may be
explained.”

Mademoiselle d'Arlanges’ face grew
deathly pale, and betrayed the utmost ter-
ror. The judge saw that at last doubt
began to affect her noble and pure
thoughts.

“ He might, then, have been mad,” she
murmured.

“ Possibly,” replied the judge ; “ but the
circumstances of the crime denote a well-
laid plan. Believe me, then, mademoiselle,
and do not be too confident. Wait, prayer-
fully, the issue of this unhappy trial. Lis-
ten to my voice ; it is that of a friend.
You used to have in me the confidence a
daughter gives to her father, you have often
told me ; do not, then, refuse my advice.
Keep silence ; wait. Hide your real griei ;
you may hereafter regret having exposed
it. Young, inexperienced, without a
mother, alas ! you have sadly misplaced
your affections.”

“ No, monsieur, no,” stammered Claire.
“ Ah ! ” she added, “ you speak like the
rest of the world, — the prudent, egotistical
world, which I despise and hate.”

“ Poor child ! ” continued Daburon, piti-
less, even in his compassion, “ unhappy girl !
this is your first deception ! Nothing can
be imagined more terrible. Few women
would know how to bear it But you are
young ; you are brave ; your life will not be
rained. Hereafter you will feel horrified
at this crime. There is no wound, I know
by experience, which time does not heal.”

Claire tried to grasp what the judge was
saying; but she heard only confused
sounds ; the meaning entirely escaped her.

“ I do not understand, monsieur,” she
broke in. “ What advice, then, would you
give me? ”

“ The only one that reason dictates, and
that my affection for you can suggest, mad-
emoiselle. I speak to you like a tender
and devoted brother. I say to you, ‘ Cour-
age, Claire : give yourself up to the saddest,
greatest sacrifice which honor can ask of
a young girl. Weep, yes, weep for your

deceived love ; but renounce it. Pray hea-
ven to send you forgetfulness. He whom
you have loved is no longer worthy of
you.”

The judge stopped, a little frightened.
Mademoiselle d’Arlanges had becomo
livid.

But, although the body failed, the soul
still remained firm.

“ You said, a moment since,” she mur-
mured, “ that he might have committed
this crime in a moment of distraction, in a
fit of madness ? ”

“ Yes, it is possible.”

“ Then, monsieur, not knowing what he
did, he is no criminal.”

The judge of inquiry forgot a certain
troublesome question which he had put to
himself one morning in bed after his sick-
ness.

“ Neither justice nor society, mademoi-
selle,” he replied, “ can take that into
account. To God alone, who sees into the
depths of our hearts, it belongs to judge, to
decide upon these questions which human
justice must pass by. In our sight, M. de
Commarin is a criminal. There may be
certain extenuating circumstances to soften
the punishment ; but the moral stain is the
same. Even if he were acquitted, — and I
hope he may be, but without hope, — he
will always wear the dishonor, the stain of
blood cowardly shed. Then give him up.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges stopped the
judge with a look which flashed the most
vivid resentment.

“ Then,” she cried, “ you counsel me to
abandon him in his misfortune. All the
world deserts him ; and your prudence ad-
vises me to act with the world. Men may
act thus, they tell me, when one of their
friends is ruined ; but women never. Look
about you; however humiliated, however
wretched, however fallen, you always find the
wife near, to sustain and console. When the
last friend has boldly taken to flight, when
the last relation has abandoned you, the
wife remains.”

The judge regretted his having been
carried away a little too far. Claire’s
excitement frightened him. He tried in
vain to stop her.

“ I may be timid,” she continued with
increasing energy ; “ but I am no coward.
I have chosen Albert voluntarily from all.
Whatever happens to him, I will never
desert him. No : I will never say, ‘ I do
not know this man.’ Pie would have given
me half of his prosperity, and of his glory,
I will share, whether he expects it or not,
half of his shame and misfortune. Between
two, the burden will be less weighty.

121

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

Strike I I will cling so closely to him that
no blow can touch him without hurting me,
too. You counsel me to forget him. Teach
me, then, how. I forget him? Could I,
if I wished ? But I do not wish it. I love
him. It is no more in my power to cease
loving him than it is to arrest, by the sole
effort of my will, the beating of my heart.
He is a prisoner, accused of an assassina-
tion. So be it. I love him. He is a
criminal. What of that? I love him. You
condemn, you dishonor him. Condemned,
dishonored, I still love him. You will send
him to prison. I will follow him ; and in the
rison, under the convict’s dress, I will love
im still. Let him fall to the bottom of
the abyss. I will fall with him. My life
is his, at his disposal. No, nothing shall
separate us, nothing but death 1 And, if
he must mount the scaffold, I shall die, I
know well, with the blow which fells him.”

Daburon had buried his face in his
hands. He would not for worlds have
Claire perceive the emotion with which
he was affected.

“ How she loves him 1 ” he thought,
* how she loves him 1 ”

His spirit was sunk in the darkest
thoughts. All the stings of jealousy were
rending him.

What would not be his delight, if he
were the object of so irresistible a passion
as this which shone before him 1 What
would he not give in return 1 He had, too,
a young and ardent soul, a burning thirst
for love. But who would be thus troubled
for him? He was esteemed, respected,
perhaps feared, but not loved ; and he
never would be. Was he, then, unworthy
of it ? Why do so many men pass through
life destitute of love, while others, the vil-
est beings sometimes, seem to possess a
mysterious power, which charms, seduces,
carries away, which inspires in the object
of their affection a blind, impetuous long-
ing to sacrifice herself for them ? Have
women, then, no reason nor discernment ?

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges’ silence brought
the judge back to himself. He raised
his eyes to her. Overcome by the
violence of her enthusiasm, she fell back
in her chair, and breathed with such diffi-
culty that Daburon feared that she was
going to faint, fie moved his hand quickly
to the bell upon his* desk, to summon aid ;
but Claire was quicker still, and stopped
him.

“ What would you do ? ” she asked.

“You seemed suffering so,” he stam-
mered, “that I — ”

“It is nothing, monsieur,” replied she.
“ I may seem weak ; but it is nothing. I

am very strong, believe me, very strong.
It is true that I suffer, as I never believed
that one could suffer. It is cruel for a
young girl to have to do violence to all
her feelings. You ought to be satisfied,
monsieur. I have torn aside all veils ; and
you have read even the inmost recesses
of my heart. But I do not regret it ; it was
for his sake. That which I do regret is
my having lowered myself so far as to
defend him ; but he will forgive me that
one doubt. Your persistence startled me so.
A man like him does not need defence :
his innocence must be proved ; and, God
helping me, I will prove it.”

As Claire was half-rising to depart,
Daburon detained her by a gesture. In
his blindness, he thought he would be do-
ing wrong to leave this poor young girl in
the slightest way deceived. Having done
so much at the beginning, he persuaded
himself that his duty bade him go on to
the end. He said to himself, in all good
faith, that thus he should save Claire her-
self, and spare her in the future from bitter
regrets. The surgeon who has commenced
a painful operation does not leave it half-
finished because the patient struggles,
suffers, and cries out.

“ It is painful, mademoiselle, — ” he
began.

Claire would not let him finish.

“ Enough, monsieur,” said she : “ all
that you can say will be of no avail. I re-
spect your unhappy conviction. I ask, in
return, the same regard for mine. If you
were truly my friend, I should ask you to
aid me in the task of saving him, to which
I shall devote myself; but you, doubtless,
are not willing.”

Claire seeme.d to be continually irrita-
ting the unhappy magistrate. With her
woman’s instinct, she had arrived at the
same result as Pere Tabaret with his logic.
Women neither analyze nor reason : they
feel and think. Instead of discussing, they
affirm ; and here, perhaps, arises their su-
periority. As for Claire, Daburon did not
feel that she was his enemy ; and yet she
treated him like one.

The judge of inquiry resented strongly
this injury. Annoyed by his scruples of
conscience on one side, and by his convic-
tions on the other, tossed about between
duty and feelings, embarrassed by the har-
ness of his profession, he was incapable of
simple reflection. For three days, he had
acted like a stubborn child. Why this ob-
stinacy, which would not admit the possi-
bility of Albert’s innocence? Investiga-
tions in all cases have the same aim. But
he, usually favorable to a prisoner, would

122

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

not admit for a moment that there might
be a mistake in this case.

“ If you knew the proofs which I have
in my hand, mademoiselle,” he said in a
cold tone, which expressed his determina-
tion not to give way to anger, “ if I should
show them to you, you would have no longer
a doubt.”

“Speak, monsieur,” cried Claire imperi-
ously.

“ You wish it, mademoiselle ? Very well ;
I will give you in detail all the charges
made by justice. I will explain every
thing; you shall know all. But no; why
should I harass you with all the proofs ?
There is one which alone is decisive. The
murder was committed on the evening of
Shrove Tuesday ; and the prisoner cannot
give an account of what he did on that
evening. He went out, however, and re-
turned home about two o’clock in the
morning, his clothes soiled and torn, his
gloves frayed.”

“ Oh ! enough, monsieur enough ! ” broke
in Claire, whose eyes beamed once more
with happiness. “You say it was on
Shrove Tuesday evening ? ”

“ Yes, mademoiselle.”

“ Ah ! I was sure,” she cried trium-
phantly. “ I told you truly that he could not
be the criminal.”

She raised her hands; and, from the
movement of her lips, it was evident that
she was praying.

The expression of the most perfect trust,
represented by some of the Italian paint-
ers, illuminated her beautiful face ; while
she gave thanks to God in a burst of thank-
fulness.

The magistrate was so disconcerted,
that he forgot to admire her. He awaited
an explanation.

“ Weil? ” he asked impatiently.

“Monsieur,” replied Claire, “if that is
your strongest proof, it exists no longer.
Albert passed the entire evening you speak
of with me.”

“ With you ? ” stammered the judge.

“ Yes, with me, at my house.”

Daburon was stunned. Was he dream-
ing ? His arms fell.

“ What 1 ” he exclaimed, “ the viscount
was at your house ? And your grandmother,
your governess, your servants, did they all
see him and speak to him ? ”

“ No, monsieur ; he came and went
away in secret. He wished no one to see
him ; he desired to be alone with me.”

“ Ah ! ” said the judge with a sigh of re-
lief.

The sigh was significant. It meant,

“ It’s all clear, — only too evident. She is

determined to save him, at the risk even of
compromising her reputation. Poor girl !
The idea must have just occurred to her.”

This “ Ah ! ” was interpreted very dif-
ferently by Mademoiselle d’Arlanges. She
thought that Daburon was astonished at her
consenting to receive Albert.

“ Your surpise is an insult, monsieur,”
said she.

“ Mademoiselle ! ”

“ A daughter of my family, monsieur,
may receive her fiancee , without danger of
any thing occurring for which she should
blush.”

She said this, and at the same time was
red with shame, grief, and anger. She be-
gan to hate Daburon.

“ I had no such insulting thought as you
imagine, mademoiselle,” said the magistrate.

“ I was only wondering why Monsieur de
Commarin went secretly to your house,
when his approaching marriage gives him
the right to present himself openly, at all
hours. I wondered still further, how, on
such a visit, he could get his clothes in the
condition in which we found them.”

“ That is to say, monsieur,” replied Claire
bitterly, “ that you doubt my word.”

“ The circumstances are such, mademoi-
selle, — ”

“ You accuse me, then, of falsehood, mon-
sieur ? Why, were we criminals, we should
not descend to justifying ourselves ; we
should never pray nor ask for pardon ”

The haughty, contemptuous tone of Mad-
emoiselle d’Arlanges could only anger the
judge. How harshly she treated him !
And simply because he would not consent
to be her dupe.

“ Above all, mademoiselle,” he answered
severely, “lama magistrate ; and I have
a duty to perform. A crime has been
committed. Every thing tells me that
Albert de Commarin is the guilty man. I
arrest him; I examine him; and I find
against him overwhelming proofs. You
come and tell me that they are false ; that
is not enough. As long as you addressed
me as a friend, you have found me kind
and gentle. Now it is the judge to whom
you speak : and it is the judge who replies,

‘ Prove it.’ ”

“ My word, monsieur, — ”

“ Prove it ! ”

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges arose slowly,
throwing upon the judge a look filled with
astonishment and suspicion.

* Shall you, then, be glad, monsieur,”
she asked, “ to find Albert guilty? Will
it give you pleasure to convict him ? Do
you hate this prisoner, whose fate is in vour
hands? They told me the truth, then.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

123

Can you talk of impartiality ? Do not
certain memories weigh heavily in the
scale ? Are you sure that you are not
armed with the law, revenging yourself
upon a rival ? ”

“ This is too much,” murmured the judge,

— “ this is too much.”

“ Do you know the unusual, the dan-
gerous position we are in at this mo-
ment? One day, I remember, you de-
clared your love for me. It appeared to
me sincere and honest ; it touched me. I
was obliged to refuse you, because I loved
another; and I pitied you. Now that
other is accused of assassination ; and you
are his judge, and I between you stand
praying for him. In accepting the duty of
investigation, you seemed to declare in his
favor ; and yet they say you are against
him.”

Claire’s every word fell upon Daburon’s
heart like a blow on his face.

Was it really she who was speaking ?
Whence came this sudden boldness, which
made her recall all those words which
found an echo in his heart ?

“ Mademoiselle,” said he, “ your grief car-
ries you beyond yourself. From you alone
could I pardon what you have just said.
Your ignorance of this matter makes you
unjust. If you think that Albert’s fate de-
pends upon my pleasure, you deceive your-
self. To convince me is nothing; it is
necessary to convince others. That 1
should believe you is all very natural ; but
what weight will others attach to your tes-
timony, when you come before them with
a story, true, — most true, I am confident,

— but highly improbable.”

Tears came into Claire’s eyes.

“ If I have unjustly offended you, mon-
sieur,” she said, “ pardon me : my unhappi-
ness makes me forget myself.”

“You cannot offend me, mademoiselle,”
replied the magistrate. “ I have already
told you that I am devoted to your ser-
vice.”

“ Then, monsieur, help me to prove the
truth of what I have said. I will tell you

every thing.” . .

Daburon was fully convinced that Claire
was seeking to deceive him ; but her bold-
ness astonished him.

He wondered what fable she was con-
cocting.

“ Monsieur, ’’began Claire, “ you know what
obstacles have stood in the way of my mar-
riage with Albert. The Count de Commann
di(f not wish me for a daughter-in-law, be-
cause I was poor, because I possessed noth-
in<r. It took Albert five years to triumph
over his father’s obj options. Twice the

count yielded ; twice he recalled the con-
sent which he said had been extorted from
him. At last, about a month ago, he gave
his consent of his own accord. But these
hesitations, delays, refusals, had deeply
hurt my grandmamma. You know her
sensitive character; and, in this case, I
must confess she was right. After the
wedding day had been fixed, the marquise
declared that we should not be comprom-
ised and laughed at for any apparent haste
in contracting so advantageous a marriage,
as we had never before been accused of am-
bition. She decided, therefore, that, until
the publication of the banns, Albert should
only be admitted into the house every other
day, for two hours in the afternoon, and
that in her presence. We could not move
her from this determination. Such was the
state of affairs, when, on Sunday morning,
a note came to me from Albert. He told
me that pressing business would prevent
his coming, although that was his regular
day. What could have happened to keep
him away ? I feared some evil. The
next day I waited, impatient, distracted,
until his valet brought a note for me to
Schmidt. In that letter, monsieur, Albert
entreated me to grant him a secret interview.
It was necessary, he wrote, that he should
have a long conversation with me alone,
and at once. Our whole future, he added,
depended upon this interview. He left me
to choose the day and hour, urging me to
confide in no one. I did not hesitate. I
sent him word to meet me on Tuesday
evening, at the little garden gate, which
opened into an unoccupied street. To no-
tify me of his presence, he was to knock
just as nine o’clock sounded from the
tower of Les Invalides. I knew that my
grandmother had invited a number of
her friends for that evening ; and I thought
that, by pretending a headache, I might
retire early, and so be free. I knew, also,
that Madame d’Arlanges would keep
Schmidt with her.”

“ Excuse me, mademoiselle,” interrupted
Daburon, “ what day did you write to
Albert?”

“ Tuesday.”

“ Can you fix the hour ? ”

« I must have sent the letter between
two and three o’clock.”

“ Thanks, mademoiselle. Go on, I be-
seech you.”

“ All my anticipations,” continued Claire,
“ were realized. I escaped in the evening ;
and I descended to the garden a little be-
fore the appointed time. I had procured
a key to the little gate ; and I tried to
openit. Unfortunately, I could not make

124

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

it turn, the lock was so rusty. I exerted all !
my strength in vain. I was in despair,
when nine o’clock sounded. At the third
stroke, Albert knocked. I told him of the
accident ; and I threw him the key, that
he might try and unlock the door. He
tried in vain. I then begged him to post-
pone our interview until the next day. He
replied that it was impossible, that what
he had to say admitted of no delay ; that,
during the three days that he had hesitated
about confiding in me, he had suffered
martyrdom, and that he could endure
it no longer. We were speaking, you un-
derstand, through the gate. At last, he
declared that lie would climb over the
wall. I begged him not to do it, fearing
an accident. It was very high, you see ;
and the top was set with pieces of broken
glass, and the acacia branches stretched
above like a hedge. But he laughed at my
fears, and said that, unless I made a
vigorous resistance, he was going to scale
the wall. I dared not say any thing ; and
he risked it. Fortunately, he was very ac-
tive, and got over without injury. He had
come, monsieur, to tell me of the misfor-
tune which had befallen him. We were
now seated upon the little bank, you know,
opposite the grove ; then, when the rain
fell, we took refuge in the summer house.
It was after midnight when Albert left me,
quiet and happy. He went back in the
same manner, only with less danger ; be-
cause I forced him to use the gardener’s
ladder, which I laid beside the wall when
he was on the other side.”

t This account, given in the simplest, most
natural manner, puzzled Daburon. What
was he to think?

“Mademoiselle,” he asked, “had the
rain commenced when Albert climbed over
the wall ? ”

“No, monsieur; the first drops fell
when we were on the bank. I recol-
lect it very well, because he opened his
umbrella ; and I thought of Paul and Vir-
ginia.”

“ Allow me one moment, mademoiselle,'”
said the judge.

lie sat down at his desk, and rapidly
wrote two letters. In the first, he gave
orders for Albert’s presence in his office in
the palais de justice.

In the second, he ordered a detective to
go immediately to the Faubourg St. Ger-
main to the d’Arlangcs house, and exam-
ine the wall at the bottom of the garden,
and notice any marks of its having been
scaled, if any such existed. He explained
that the wall had been climbed twice, be-
fore and after the rain ; consequently the

marks of the going and coming would bo
different from each other.

He enjoined upon this agent to proceed
with the utmost caution, and to discover a
plausible pretext which would explain his
investigations.

Having finished writing, the judge rang
for his servant, who appeared.

“ Here,” said he, “ are two letters, which
you will take to my clerk, Constant. Tell
him to read them, and to have the orders
they contain executed at once, — at once,
you understand. Run, take a carriage,
any thing, but go quickly 1 Ah 1 one word.
If Constant is not in my office, have him
sought for : he will not be a great way off,
as he is waiting for me. Go quick ! ”

Daburon then turned to Claire.

“ Have you kept the letter, mademoiselle,
in which Albert asked for this interview ? ”

“ Yes, monsieur, I ought to have it with
me.”

She arose, felt in her pocket, and drew
out a much rumpled piece of paper.

“ Here it is ! ”

The judge of inquiry took it. A sus-

fficion crossed him. This compromising
etter was quite conveniently in Claire’s
pocket ; and yet young girls do not usually
thus expose requests for interviews. At a
glance, he ran' over the ten lines of the
note.

“ No date,” he muttered, “ no stamp, —
nothing at all.”

Claire did not hear him ; she was rack-
ing her brain to find proofs of the. inter
view.

“ Monsieur,” said she suddenly, “ it often
happens, that, when we wish to be, and
believe ourselves alone, we are nevertheless
observed. Summon, I beseech you, all of my
grandmamma’s servants, and inquire if any
of them saw Albert that night.”

“ Inquire of your servants 1 Are you
not dreaming, mademoiselle ? ”

“What, monsieur? You fear that I
shall be compromised. What of that, if
he is only freed ? ”

Daburon could not help admiring her.
What sublime devotion in this young
girl, whether she spoke the truth or not!
He could understand her violence of an
hour ago, now that he knew her character
so well.

“ That is not all, ” she added ; “ the key
to the little gate which I threw to Albert :
He did not return it to me ; he must have
forgotten it. If they find it in his possession,
that will well prove that he was in the gar-
den.”

“ I will give the orders, mademoiselle.”
“ There is still another means,” con-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

125

tinned Claire ; “ while I am here, send to
examine the wall.”

She seemed to think of every thing.

“ That is already done, mademoiselle,”
replied Daburon. “ I will not hide from
you, that one of the letters which I have
just sent off ordered an examination of
your grandmother’s house, — a very quiet
examination, though, be assured.”

Claire rose joyfully, and for the second
time held out her hand to the judge.

“ Oh, thanks ! ” said she, “ a thousand
thanks ! Now I am sure that you are with
me. But I have still another idea : Albert
ought to have the note I wrote on Tues-
day.”

“ No, mademoiselle, he has burned it.”

Claire’s eyes drooped ; she drew back.

She imagined a touch of irony in the
judge’s reply. There was none, however.
The magistrate remembered the letter
thrown into the fire by Albert on Tuesday
afternoon. It could be none other than
this of Claire’s. It was to her, then, that
the words, “ She cannot resist me,” applied.
He understood, now, the action and the re-
mark.

“ Do you know, mademoiselle,” he pur-
sued, “ that M. de Commarm has led jus-
tice astray, and has exposed me to a most
deplorable error, when it would have been
so easy to have told me all this ? ”

“ It seems to me, monsieur, that an hon-
est man could not confess that he had ob-
tained an interview with a lady, until he
had obtained full permission from her own
lips. He ought to risk his life sooner than
the honor of her who has trusted in him ; but
be assured Albert had confidence in me.”

He had nothing to reply to this ; for the
sentiments expressed by Mademoiselle
d’Arlanges gave a meaning to some of
Albert’s replies in the examination.

“ This is not all yet, mademoiselle,” con-
tinued the judge ; “ all that you have told
me here, you must repeat in my office, at
the palais de justice. My clerk must take
down your testimony ; and you must sign
it. This proceeding will be painful ; but
it is a necessary formality.”

“ Ah, monsieur, I will do it with pleas-
ure. What can I refuse, when I know that
he is in prison ? I am determined to do
every thing. If I am needed at the court
of assize, f will go, — yes, I will be present ;
and, above all and before all, I will speak
the truth. Doubtless,” she added sadly,
“I shall bo much exposed : I shall be
looked upon as a heroine of romance ; but
what matters public opinion, the blame or
approval of the world, since I am sure of
his love ? ”

She arose, readjusting her cloak and the
strings of her hat.

“ Must I,” she asked, “ await the return
of those who are examining the wall ? ”

“ It is not at all necessary, mademoiselle.”

“ Then,” she continued in a sweet voice,
“ I can only beseech you” (she clasped her
hands), “ conjure you” (her eyes implored),
“ to let Albert out ot prison.”

“ He shall be liberated as soon as possi-
ble ; I give you my word.”

“Oh, to-day, dear Monsieur Daburon,
to-day, I beg of you, — now, this moment !
Since he is innocent, be kind, since you
are our friend. Do you wish me to go
down on my knees ? ”

The judge had only time to extend his
arms, and prevent her.

He was choking with emotion, unhappy
man !

Ah 1 how much he envied the prisoner’s
lot!

“ That which you ask of me is impossible,
mademoiselle,” said he tenderly, “ imprac-
ticable, upon my honor. Ah ! if it de-
pended upon me alone, I should not be
able, even were he guilty, to see you weep,
and to resist.”

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges, so firm up to
this time, could no longer restrain her sobs.

“ Unhappy man ! ” she cried, “ he is suf-
fering; he is in prison. I am free; and
yet I can do nothing for him. Great
heaven ! inspire me with accents to touch
the heart of men ! At their feet I will
cast myself for pardon.”

She suddenly stopped, surprised at hav-
ing uttered such a word.

“ Pardon ! ” she repeated fiercely ; “he has
no need of pardon. Why am I only a
woman ? Can I not find one man who will
aid me ? Yes,” she said after a moment’s
reflection, “ there is one man who owes
himself to Albert ; since he it was who put
him in this position, — the Count do Com-
marin. He is his father, and has yet
abandoned him. Ah, well ! I will remind
him that he has a son still.”

The magistrate arose to see her to the
door; but she had already disappeared,
taking with her the good Schmidt.

Daburon, more dead than alive, sank
back in his chair. His eyes filled with
tears.

“ What a noble woman she is ! ” he mur-
mured. “ Ah ! I made no vulgar choice.
I had divined and understood all theso
good qualities.”

He had never loved her so much; and
he felt that he should never be consoled for
not having won her love in return. But,
in the midst of his meditations, a sudden

126

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

thought passed like a flash across his brain.

Had Claire spoken the truth ? Had she
not been playing a role, assumed to deceive
him ? No, surely no 1

But she might have been deceived, —
might have been the dupe of some skilful
trick.

Pere Tabaret’s prediction was now
realized.

Tabaret had said, “ Look out for an
unobjectionable alibi.”

How could he show the falsity of this
one, planned in advance, affirmed by
Claire, who was herself deceived ?

How could he foil a plan, so well laid
that the prisoner was able without danger
to await certain results, with his hands
bound, and without himself moving in the
matter ?

And yet, if Claire’s story were true, and
Albert innocent.

The judge struggled in the midst of in-
extricable difficulties, without a plan, with-
out an idea.

He arose.

“Oh 1 ” he said in a loud voice, as though
encouraging himself, “ at the palais, all
will be unravelled.”

CHAPTER XVI.

Daburon had been surprised at Claire’s
visit.

M. de Commarin was still more so, when
his valet de chambre whispered to him that
Mademoiselle d’Arlanges asked a moment’s
conversation with him.

Daburon had let a handsome card-plate
fall; M. de Commarin, who was at break-
fast, let his knife fall.

Like the judge he exclaimed, —

“ Claire ! ”

He hesitated to receive her, fearing a
painiul and disagreeable scene.

She had had, lie knew, very slight affec-
tion for him, who had for so long repulsed
her with such obstinacy. What could
she want with him ? To inquire about Al-
bert, of course. And what could he reply ?

She would probably have some nervous
attack or other ; and her system, as well
as his, would be disturbed.

However, he thought ‘of the great grief
she must have experienced ; and he pitied
her.

lie reflected, that it would be cruel, as
well as unworthy his character, to keep
himself from her who was to have been his
daught 3r, — the Viscountess de Commarin.

He sent a message, asking her to wait
one instant in the little salon on the ground
floor.

He did not keep her long, his appe-
tite having been destroyed by the an-
nouncement of her presence. He was
prepared for any thing disagreeable.

When he entered, Claire bowed to him
with one of those graceful, yet highly dig-
nified bends, which distinguished the Mar-
quise d’Arlanges.

“ Monsieur,” she began —

“ You come, do you not, my poor child,
to obtain news of the unhappy boy ? ”
asked M. de Commarin.

He had interrupted Claire, wishing to go
straight to the point, in order to get it the
more quickly over.

“ No, monsieur,” replied the young girl ;
“ I come, on the contrary, to bring you
news. Albert is innocent.”

The count looked at her most attentive-
ly, persuaded that grief had affected her
reason ; but her madness in this instance
was very quiet.

“ I have never doubted it,” continued
Claire ; “ but now I have the most positive
proofs.”

“ Do you feel sure of what you have ad-
vanced ? ” inquired the count, whose eyes
betrayed his doubt.

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges understood his
thoughts ; her interview with Daburon had
given her experience.

“ I advance nothing which is not of the
utmost accuracy,” she replied, “ and easily
proved. I have just come from the judge
of inquiry, Monsieur Daburon, who is one
of my grandmamma’s friends ; and, after
what I have told him, he is persuaded that
Albert is innocent.”

“ He told you that, Claire ! ” exclaimed
the count. “ My child, are you sure, are you
not deceiving yourself?”

“ No, monsieur. I told him something*
of which the world is ignorant, and of
which Albert, who is a gentleman, could
not speak ; I told him that Albert passed
with me, in my grandmamma’s garden, all
that evening when the crime was commit-
ted. He had asked an interview of
me — ”

“ But your word will not be sufficient.”

“ There are proofs of it, which Justice has
by this time.”

“ Heavens 1 Is it really possible ? ”
cried the count, who was beside himself.

“ Ah, monsieur ! ” said Mademoiselle
d’Arlanges bitterly, “ you are like the
judge ; you thought it impossible. You are
his father, and suspected him. You could
not have known him, then. You aban-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

127

doned him, without trying to defend him.
Ah, I never doubted him ! ”

We can easily be induced to believe true
what we are anxiously longing for. M. de
Commarin was not difficult to convince.
Without reasons, without discussion, he put
faith in Claire’s assertions. He shared her
convictions, without asking whether they
were wise or prudent.

Yes, he had been overcome by the posi-
tiveness of the judge : he had acknowl-
edged the improbability of his son’s inno-
cence ; and he had bowed his head. .One
word from this young girl restored him.
Albert innocent V This thought descended
upon his heart like dew from heaven.

Claire appeared to him a messenger
bringing sunshine and hope.

During the last three days, he had dis-
covered how great his affection for Albert
was. He had loved him tenderly ; for he
had never been able to discard him, in
spite of his frightful suspicions about his
paternity.

For three days, the remembrance of the
crime imputed to the unhappy boy, the
thought of the punishment which awaited
him, had nearly killed him ; and now he
was innocent 1

No more shame, no more scandal, no
more stains upon the escutcheon ; the
name of Commarin would no longer re-
sound before the tribunals.

“ But now, mademoiselle,” demanded
the count, “ are they going to release
him?”

“ Alas ! monsieur, I demanded that they
should at once place him at liberty. It is
just, is it not? since he is not guilty?
feut the judge only replied that it was not
possible ; that he was not the master ; that
Albert’s fate depended on many others.
It was then that I resolved to come to you
for aid.”

“ Is there any thing in my power ? ”

“I at least hope so. I am only a poor
girl, very ignorant ; and I know no one in
the world. I do not know what can be done
in behalf of a man unjustly detained in pris-
on. There ought, however, to be some
means for obtaining justice fdfc them. Will
you not try what can be done, monsieur,
you, who are his father ? ”

“ Yes,” replied M. de Commarin quickly,
“ yes, and without a moment’s loss.”

Since Albert’s arrest, the count had been
plunged in a dull stupor. In his profound
grief seeing about him only ruin and dis-
aster, he had done nothing to shake off this
mental paralysis. Ordinarily very active,
he sat all day now without moving. He
congratulated himself that his condition pre-

O

vented his feeling the immensity of hik
misfortune. Claire’s voice sounded in his
ear like the resurrection trumpet. The
frightful darkness was dispelled ; he saw a
glimmering in the horizon; he recovered
the energy of his youth.

“ Let us go,” he said.

But suddenly the radiance in his face
changed to sadness, mixed with anger.

“ But yet,” he said, “ where ? At what
door shall we knock with any hope of suc-
cess ? In the olden times, I should seek the
king; but to-day the emperor will not in-
terfere with the law. He will tell me to
await the decision of the tribunals, that he
can do nothing. Wait. And Albert is
counting the minutes in mortal agony !
We shall certainly obtain justice ; but to
do it promptly is an art taught in schools
that I have not frequented.”

“ Let us try, at least, monsieur,” per-
sisted Claire. “ Let us seek out judges,
generals, ministers. Only lead me to
them. I will speak ; and you shall see if
we do not succeed.”

The count took Claire’s little hands be-
tween his own, and held them a moment
pressing them with paternal tenderness.

“ Brave girl 1 ” he cried ; “ you are a
noble, courageous woman, Claire. Good
blood never fails. I should not have
known you. Yes, you shall be my daugh-
ter ; and you shall be happy together, —
Albert and you. But we mustn’t rush
about everywhere, like wild geese. We
need some one to point out whom we should
address, — some guide, advocate, notary.
Ah ! ” he cried, “ I have it, — Noel.”

Claire raised her eyes to the count’s in
surprise.

“ He is my son,” replied M. de Com-
marin, evidently embarrassed, — “ my
other son, Albert’s brother, — the best and
worthiest of men,” he added, repeating
quite appropriately a phrase already used
by Daburon. “ He is an advocate ; he
knows all about the palais ; he will guide
us.”

Noel’s name, thus thrown into the midst
of this conversation so full of hope, op-
pressed Claire’s heart.

The count perceived her affright.

“ Don’t feel anxious, dear child,” he said.
“ Noel is good ; and I will tell you more,
loves Albert. Do not shake your head so ;
Noel told me himself, on this very spot,
that he did not believe Albert guilty. He
declared that he intended doing every
thing to dispel the fatal mistake, and that
he would be his advocate.”

These assertions did not seem to reas-
sure the young girl. She said to herself,

128

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ What Las this Noel accomplished for Al-
bert ? ” She could think of nothing.

“ I will send for him,” said M. de Com-
marin ; “he is now with Albert’s mother,
who brought him up, and who is now on
her death-bed.”

“ Albert’s mother ? ”

“ Yes, my child. Albert will explain to
you what may perhaps seem to you an
enigma. Now timo presses. But I
think — ”

He stopped suddenly. He thought,
that, instead of sending tor Noel at Madame
Gerdy’s, he might go there himself. He
should thus see Valerie! and he had
longed to see her again so much !

It was one of those actions which the
heart urges, but which we do not dare
risk ; because a thousand subtle reasons
and interests are against it.

We wish, we desire, we long for it ; and
yet we struggle, combat, resist. But, if an
opportunity occurs, we are only too happy
to seize it ; then we have, at least, one ex-
cuse to silence our conscience.

In thus yielding every thing to the im-
pulse of our feelings, we can say, “ It was
not I who wished it ; it was fate.”

“It will be better, perhaps,” observed
the count, “ to go to Noel. ’

“ Let us start then, monsieur.”

“ I hardly know, my child,” said the old
gentleman hesitating, “ whether I may,
whether I ought, to take you with me.
Propriety — ”

“ Ah, monsieur, why talk of propriety ? ”
replied Claire impetuously. “With you,
and for his sake, I can go anywhere. Is it
not indispensable that I should give the
circumstances ? Only send word to my
grandmamma by Schmidt, who will come
back here and await my return. I am
ready, monsieur.”

“ Well,” said the count.

Then, ringing so violently that he broke
the bell cord, he cried, “ My carriage ! ”

In descending the stairway, lie insisted
upon Claire’s taking his arm. The gallant
and elegant politeness of the Count d’ Artois
reappeared.

“ You have taken off twenty years from
my age,” he said ; “it is fit that I should
do homage for the youth you have given
me.”

When Claire had entered the carriage,
“ Rue St. Lazare,” lie said to the footman,
“ quick ! ”

Whenever the count said, on entering
his carriage, “ quick,” the foot-passengers
had to get out of the way. But. the coach-
man was a skilful driver; and they ar-
rived without accident.

Aided by the directions of the porter,
the count and the young girl went towards
Madame Gerdy’s apartment. The count
mounted slowly, holding tightly to the
railing, stopping at each landing to breathe.
He was, then, to see her again. This emo-
tion pressed his heart like a vise.

“ Noel Gcrdy ? ” he asked of the maid.

The advocate had just that moment gone
out. She did not know where he had
gone ; but he had said he should not be out
more than half an hour.

“ We will wait for him, then,” said the
count.

He advanced ; and the maid drew back
to let them pass. Noel had, in so many
words, forbidden her to admit any visitors ;
butthe Count de Commarin was one of those
whose appearance makes servants forget
all their orders.

Three persons were in the room when
the maid introduced the Count and Made-
moiselle d’Arlanges.

There was the parish priest, the doctor,
and a tall man, an officer of the legi'dn of
honor, whose carriage and figure indicated
the veteran.

They were conversing near the mantel;
and the arrival of strangers appeared to
astonish them.

In bowing, in response to M. de Com-
marin’s and Claire’s salute, they seemed to
inquire their business ; but the hesitation
was brief: the soldier offered Mademoi-
selle d’Arlanges a chair.

The count saw that his presence was in-
opportune ; and he felt called upon to
introduce himself, and explain his visit.

“ You will excuse me, messieurs,” said
he, “ if I am inconsiderate. I need not tell
you, that, in asking permission to await
Noel, I have the most pressing need of see-
ing him. I am the Count de Commarin.”

At this name, the old soldier left the
chair whose back he still held, and assumed
all the haughtiness of his profession. An
angry light flashed in his eyes ; and he
made a threatening gesture. His lips
moved, as if he were about to speak ; but
he restrained himself, and retired, his head
bowed, to the window.

Neither the count nor the others re-
marked these various movements ; but they
did not escape Claire.

While Mademoiselle d’Arlanges sat
down, confused, the count, also much em-
barrassed at his position, approached the
priest, and in a low voice asked, —

“ What is, I beseech you, Monsieur
l’Abbe, Madame Gerdy’s condition ? ”

The doctor, who had a sharp car, heard
the question, and approached quickly.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

129

It was very pleasant to speak to a per-
sonage as celebrated as the Count de
Commarin, and to become acquainted with
him.

“ I fear, monsieur,” he said, “ that she
cannot live another day.”

The count pressed his hand against his
forehead, as though he had felt a sudden
pain. He hesitated to inquire further.

After a moment of chilling silence, he re-
solved to go on.

“ Does she recognize her friends ? ” he
murmured.

“ No, monsieur. Since last evening,
however, there has been a great change.
She was very uneasy all last night :
she had moments of fierce delirium.
About an hour ago, we thought she was
recovering her senses ; and we sent for the
priest.”

“ Very useless, though,” putin the priest ;
“ it is a sad misfortune. Her reason is
quite gone, poor woman ! I have known
her ten years. I have seen her nearly every
week ; and I never knew a more excellent
woman.”

“ She must suffer dreadfully,” said the
doctor.

Almost on the instant, and as if to bear
out the doctor’s words, they heard stifled
cries from the next room, the door of which
was open.

“ Did you hear ? ” exclaimed the count,
trembling from head to foot.

Claire understood nothing of this strange
scene. Dark presentiments oppressed her ;
she felt as though she were enveloped by
an atmosphere of evil. She grew fright-
ened, and drew near the count.

“ Is she really there ? ” asked M. de
Commarin.

“ Yes, monsieur,” harshly answered the
old soldier who had come near, “ she is.”

At another time, the count would have no-
ticed the soldier’s tone, and have resented it.
Now, he did not even raise his eyes. He
remained insensible to every thing. Was
she not there, two steps from him ? His
thoughts were in the past ; it seemed to
him but yesterday that he had quitted her
for the last time.

“ I should much like to see her,” he said
timidly.

“ That is impossible,” replied the old
soldier.

“ Why ? ” stammered the count.

“ At least, Monsieur de Commarin,” re-
plied the soldier, “ let her die in peace.”

The count started, as if he had been
struck. His eyos encountered those of the
veteran’s ; they fell like a criminal’s before
his judge.

“ Nothing need prevent monsieur’s en-
tering Madame Gerdy’s room,” put in the
doctor, who purposely saw nothing of all
this. “ She would probably not notice his
presence ; and if — ”

“ Oh, she would perceive nothing ! ” said
the priest. “ I have just spoken to her,
taken her hand : she is still insensible.”

The old soldier reflected deeply.

“ Enter,” said he at last to the count ;
“ perhaps it is God’s will.”

The count tottered, so that the doctor
sprang forward to assist him. He gently
pushed him away.

The doctor and the priest entered with
him ; Claire and the olcF soldier remained
at the threshold of the door, opposite the
bed.

The count took three or four steps, and
was obliged to stop. He wished, but could
not go further.

Could this dying woman really be Va-
lerie ?

He had to tax his memory severely :
nothing in those withered features, nothing
in that troubled face, recalled the beautiful,
the adored Valerie of his youth. He did
not even know her.

But she knew him, or rather divined,
felt his presence. Moved by a supernatu-
ral force, she raised herself, exposing her
shoulders and emaciated arms. With a
violent gesture, she pushed away the ice
from her forehfead, throwing back her still
plentiful hair, bathed with perspiration,
which fell upon the pillow.

“ Guy ! ” she cried. “ Guy'! ”

The count trembled all over.

He stood more immovable than those
unhappy people, who, according to popular
belief, when struck by lightning remain
standing, but crumble into dust if touched.

He did not perceive that which imme-
diately struck all others present, — the
transformation in the sick woman. Her
contracted features relaxed : a celestial joy
spread over her face ; and her eyes, hollowed
by disease, assumed an expression of infi-
nite tenderness.

“ Guy,” said she in a voice heart-break-
ing by its sweetness, “ you have come at
last 1 How long, O my God ! I have wait-
ed for you ! You cannot think what I
have suffered in your absence. I was dy-t
ing of grief, without one hope of seeing
you again. They have kept you from me.
Who, who was it ? Your relations still ?
Cruel, cruel 1 Did you not tell them that
no one could love you here below as I did ?
No ; that was not it. I, I forget. I, —
were you not angry when you left me ?
Your friends wished to separate us ; they

o

130

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

said that I drew you away from her. Who
have I injured that I should have so many
enemies ? They envied my happiness ;
and we were so happy ! But you did not be-
lieve the wicked calumny : you scorned it ;
for are you not here ? ”

The nun, who had risen on seeing so
many enter the sick room, now opened her
eyes with astonishment.

“ I betray you ? ” continued the dying
woman, apparently wild at the thought.
“ Was I not yours, your own, heart and
soul ? To me you were every thing ; and
there was nothing I could expect or hope
from another which you had not already
given me. Was I not yours, body and
soul, from the first? I never hesitated to
give tnyself entirely to you ; I felt that I
was born for you. Guy, can you forget
that ? I was working for a lace-maker,
and was barely earning a living. You told
me that you were a poor student ; and I
felt that you were depriving yourself for
my sake. You wished to fit up our little
cottage at St. Michael. "It was lovely,
with its fresh paper all covered with flow-
ers, which we ourselves hung. How de-
lightful it was ! From the window, there
was a view of the great trees at the Tuil-
eries ; and, by a little imagination, we could
see the setting sun through the arches of
the bridge. Oh, those happy times ! The
first time that we walked out into the
country together, one Sunday, you brought
me a more beautiful dress than I had ever
dreamed of, and boots so tiny that' it was a
shame to walk in them. But you had de-
ceived me ; you were not a poor student.
One day, in taking my work home, I met
you in an elegant carriage, behind which
rode tall footmen in a livery covered with
gold. I could not believe my eyes. That
evening you told me the truth, that you were
a noble of great wealth. O my darling !
why did you tell me?”'

Had she her reason, or was this delirium
which was speaking ?

Great tears rolled down the wrinkled
face of the Count de Commarin ; and the
doctor and priest wondered at this sad
spectacle of an old man weeping like a
child.

Last evening only, the count had thought
his heart dead ; and now this voice, sinking
into his heart, was sufficient to recall the
fresh, powerful feelings of his youth. How
many years had passed away since 1

“ Then,” continued Madame Gerdy, “ we
left St. Michael. You wished it ; and I
obeyed, in spite of my apprehensions.
You told me, that, to please you, I must re-
semble the great ladies. You provided

teachers for me ; foi I had been so ignorant
that I scarcely knew how to sign my
name. Do you remember the queer spell-
ing in my first letter? Ah, Guy, if you
had only been really a poor student !
When I knew that you were so rich, I lost
my simplicity, my thoughtlessness, my
gaiety. I feared that you would think me
covetous, — that you would imagine that
your fortune influenced my love. Men,
who, like you, have millions, must be very
unhappy. They must be always doubting
and full of suspicions ; they can never be
sure whether it is themselves or their gold
which is loved : and this makes them defi-
ant, jealous, cruel. Oh, my dearest ! why did
we leave our little cottage ? There we were
happy. Why did you not leave me always
where you had found me? Did you not
know that the sight of happiness irritates
mankind? If we had been wise, we
should have hid our happiness like a crime.
You thought to raise me; you only sunk
me lower. You were proud of our love ;
you published it abroad. Vainly I asked you
in mercy to leave me in obscurity, and un-
known. Soon the whole town knew that I
was your mistress. It was reported, in your
own circles, that you were ruining yourself
for me. How I blushed at the flaunting
luxury you thrust upon me ! You were
satisfied, because my beauty became cele-
brated ; I wept because my shame became
so, too. They talked about me, as
about women who make their lovers
commit the greatest follies. Was not my
name in the papers ? And it was through
the same papers that I learned of your ap-
proaching marriage. Unhappy woman !

I should have fled from you ; but I had not
the courage. I resigned myself, without
an effort, to the most humiliating, the most
shameful of lots. You were married ; and I
continued your mistress. Oh, what anguish
I suffered during that terrible evening I I
was alone in my own house, in that room
so associated with you ; and you were mar-
rying another. I said to myself, ‘ At this
moment, a pure, noble young girl is giving
herself to him.’ I said again, ‘ What oaths
is that mouth, which has so often pressed
my lips, now taking ? ’ Often since that
dreadful misfortune, I have asked the good
God what crime I had committed that I
should be so terribly punished ? This was
the crime. I continued your mistress, and
your wife died. I had only seen her once,
and then scarcely for a moment ; but she
looked at you ; and I knew that she loved
as only I could. And, Guy, it was our
love that killed her ! ”

She stopped exhausted : but none of the

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

131

bystanders moved. They listened breath-
lessly, and -waited with feverish emotion for
her to resume.

Mademoiselle d’ Arlanges had not strength
to remain standing; she fell upon her
knees, and pressed her handkerchief to her
mouth to keep back her sobs. Was not
this Albert’s mother?

The worthy sister was alone unmoved ;
she had seen, she said to herself, many such
deliriums before. She understood abso-
lutely nothing of the scene.

“These people are very foolish,” she
thought, “ to pay so much attention to the
ramblings of insanity.”

She thought she had more sense than
the others. Approaching the bed, she be-
gan to cover the sick woman.

“ Come, madame,” said she, “ cover your-
self, or you will catch cold.”

“ Sister ! ” remonstrated the doctor and
the priest at the same moment.

“Jupiter Ammon 1 ” cried the soldier,
“ let her speak.”

“ Who,” cofitinued the sick woman, un-
conscious of all that was passing about
her, — “ who can tell what I have endured ?
Oh, the wretches ! They set spies upon
me ; they discovered that an officer came
frequently to see me. That officer was my
brother, my dear Louis. When he was
eighteen years old, getting no work, he en-
listed, saying to mother, that there would
now be one mouth less in the family. He,
was a good soldier ; and the officers always
liked him. He joined his regiment : he
taught himself ; and he gradually rose in
rank. He was promoted to lieutenant, cap-
tain, and finally became major. Louis always
loved me ; but I seldom saw him. He was
a non-commissioned officer when he first
knew that I had a lover ; and he was so en-
raged that I feared he would never forgive
me. But he did forgive me, saying that
my constancy in my wrong was its only ex-
cuse. Ah, my friend, he was more jealous
of your honor than you yourself! He came
to see me in secret, because I had placed
him in the unhappy position of blushing
.for his sister. My name never passed his
lips. Could a brave soldier confess that
his sister was the mistress of a count?
That it might not be known, I took the ut-
most precautions, but alas ! only to make
you doubt me. When Louis knew what
was said, he wished, in his blind rage, to
challenge you ; and then I was obliged to
prove to him that he had no right to defend
me. What misery ! Ah, I have paid dearly
for my years of stolen happiness ! But you
are here ; and all is forgotten ; for you do
believe me, do you not, Guy ? I will call

Louis. He will come : he will tell you that
I do. not lie ; and you cannot doubt his, a
j soldier’s word.”

. “ Yes, on my honor,” spoke the old sol-
dier, “ what my sister says is the truth.”

The dying woman did not hear him ; she.
continued in a voice panting with weari-
ness, —

“ How your presence revives me ! I feel
that I am growing stronger. I have been
sick. I do not deserve to be happy to-day ;
but embrace me ! ”

She held out her hands, and raised her
lips as if to kiss him.

“ But it is on one condition, Guy, that
you will leave me my child. Oh! I beg
you, I entreat you not to take him from
me ; leave him to me. What is a mother
without her son ? You are anxious to give
him an illustrious name, an immense for-
tune. No. You tell me that this sacrifice
will be for his good* No. My child is mine ;

I will protect him. The world has no hon-
ors, no riches, which can replace a mother’s
care beside the cradle. You wish, by the
exchange, to give me another’s child.
Never ! What, shall that woman embrace
my boy ? No, no. Take away this
strange child from me ; it fills me with hor-
ror. I want my own Noel ! Ah, do not
insist, do not threaten me with your anger !
Don’t leave me. I yield, and then I will
die. Guy, give up this fatal purpose ; the
thought alone is crime. Cannot my pray-
ers, my tears, can nothing move you ? Ah,
well, God will punish us in our old age.
All will be discovered. The day will come
when these children will demand a fearful
reckoning. Guy, I foresee the future; I
see my son coming to me, justly angered.
What does he say ? Great heaven ! Oh,
those letters, those letters, sweet memories
of our love ! My son, he threatens me !
He strikes me ! Ah, help ! A son strike
his mother ! Tell no one of it : don’t let it
ever be known. God, what torture ! He
knows well that I am his mother. He pre-
tends not to believe me. This is too much !
Guy, pardon, oh, my dearest ! I had not
power to resist, nor the courage to obey
you.”

At this moment the door leading to the
stairway opened, and Noel appeared, pale
as usual, but calm and composed.

The dying woman saw him ; and it
affected her like an electric shock.

A terrible trembling shook her whole
body ; her eyes grew inordinately large ;
her hair seemed to stand on end. She
raised herself on her elbows, pointed at
Noel, and in a loud voice exclaimed, —

“ Assassin 1 ”

132

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

Convulsively she fell back on the bed.
They hastened forward : she was dead.

A deep silence prevailed.

Such is the majesty of death, and the
terror which accompanies it, that, before it,
even the strongest and most skeptical bow
their heads.

For an instant, passions and interests
are forgotten. Involuntarily we are drawn
together, when some mutual friend breathes
his last in our presence.

All the bystanders were deeply moved
by this painful scene, this last confession,
wrested from a delirious and unhappy
woman.

But the last word uttered by Madame
Gerdy, “ Assassin ! ” surprised no one.

All, with the exception of the nun, knew
of the unhappy accusation which had been
made against Albert.

To him they applied the malediction of
the unfortunate mother.

Noel appeared to totter. Kneeling near
the bedside of her who had been as a
mother to him, he took one of her hands,
and pressed it close to his lips.

“ Dead 1 ” he groaned ; “ she is dead ! ”

By his side, the nun and the priest knelt,
and repeated in a low voice the prayers for
the dead.

They implored God to shed his peace
and mercy on this departed soul.

They begged for a little happiness in
heaven for her who had suffered so much
on this earth.

Falling into a chair, his head back, the
Count de Commarin was more over-
whelmed, more livid, than this dead woman,
his old love, once so beautiful.

Claire and the doctor pressed toward
him.

They undid his cravat, and opened the
collar of his shirt, or he would have suffo-
cated.

With the help of the old soldier, whose
red, tearful eye told of suppressed grief,
they moved the count’s chair to the half-
opened window for a little air. Three days
before, this scene would have killed him.

But the heart grows hardened by misfor-
tune, as hands by labor.

“ Tears would relieve him,” whispered
the doctor to Claire.

M. de Commarin gradually recovered,
and, with clearness of thought, returned
the intensity of suffering.

The prostration was followed by great
struggles in his mind. Nature seemed
striving to sustain the misfortune. We
never feel the entire shock at once ; it is
only afterwards that we realize the extent
and profundity of any misfortune.

The count’s gaze was fixed upon the bed
where lay Valerie’s body. There, then,
was all that remained of her. The soul
— that soul, so devoted, so tender — had
flown.

What would he not give if God would
but return that unfortunate woman for a day,
for only an hour of life and reason ? With
what transports of repentance would he
cast himself at her feet, to implore par-
don, to tell her how much horror he had for
his past conduct. How he had misunder-
stood the inexhaustible love of that angel !
Upon a suspicion, without deigning to in-
quire, without hearing her, he had crushed
her with his cold contempt. Why had he
not investigated the matter? He would
have spared himself twenty years of doubt
as to Albert’s birth. Instead of an isola-
ted existence, he would have had a happy,
joyous life.

Then he recalled the death of the count-
ess. She also had loved, even to her
death.

He had not understood them; he had
killed them both.

The hour of expiation had come ; and
he could not say “ Lord, the punishment is
too great.”

And yet, what punishment, what wretch-
edness, during the last five days 1

“ Yes,” he stammered, “ she predicted
it. Why did I not listen to her ? ”

Madame Gerdy’s brother pitied the old
man, so severely tried. He held out his
hand.

“ Monsieur de Commarin,” he said, in a
grave, sad voice, “ my sister pardoned you
long ago, even if she ever had an ill feeling
against you. It is my turn to-day ; I for-
give you sincerely.”

“ Thanks, monsieur,” murmured the
count, — “ thanks ! ” and then added
“ dead 1 ’

“Yes,” said Claire, “ she breathed her
last in the idea that her son was guilty.
And you did not undeceive her.”

“ At least her son,” cried the count,
“ should be free to render her his last du-
ties ; yes, he must be. Noel ! ”

The advocate had drawn near his father,
and had heard all.

“ I have promised, father,” he replied,
“ to save him.”

For the first time, Mademoiselle d’Ar-
langes was face to face with Noel. Their
eyes met; and she Could not restrain a
movement of repugnance, which the advo-
cate perceived.

“ Albert is already saved,” she said bit-
terly. “ What we ask is, that prompt jus-
tice shall be done him ; that he shall be im-

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

mediately set at liberty. The judge now
knows the truth.”

“ The truth ? ” exclaimed the advocate.

“Yes; Albert passed at my house, with
me, the evening the crime was commit-
ted.”

Noel looked at her surprised : so singu-
lar a confession from such a mouth, with-
out explanation, might well surprise him.

She drew herself up haughtily.

“ I am Mademoiselle Claire d’Arlanges,
monsieur,” she said.

M. de Commarin now quickly ran over
all the incidents reported by Claire.

When he had finished, —

“ Monsieur,” replied Noel, “ you see my
position ; leave this until to-morrow.”

“ To-morrow ! ” interrupted the count
indignantly, “ you said, I believe, to-mor-
row 1 Honor demands, monsieur, that we
act to-day, this moment. You can do honor
to this poor woman much better by deliver-
ing her son than by praying for her.”

Noel bowed low.

“ To hear your wish, monsieur, is to obey
it,” he said. “ I go. This evening, at your
house, I will have the honor of giving you
an account of my proceedings. Perhaps I
shall be able to bring Albert with me.”

He spoke, and, embracing the dead wo-
man for the last time, went out.

Soon the count and Mademoiselle d’Ar-
langes followed.

The old soldier went to the mayor’s, to
make his declaration of the death, and to
fulfil the necessary formalities.

The nun alone remained, awaiting the
priest, which the cure had promised to
send to watch the corpse.

The daughter of St. Vincent felt neither
fear nor embarrassment ; she had been so
many times in just such scenes.

Her prayers said, she arose, and went
about the room, putting every thing in the
proper order after a death.

She removed all traces of the sickness, hid
the vials and little cups, burnt some sugar
upon the fire shovel, and on a table covered
with a white cloth at the head of the bed,
laced some lighted candles, a crucifix with
oly water, and a branch of palm.

CHAPTER XVII.

Troubled and distressed by the revela-
tions of Mademoiselle d’Arlanges, Daburon
was ascending the stairway that led to the
gallery of the judges of inquiry, when he
was met by Pere Tabaret. The sight
pleased him ; and so he called out, —

“ Monsieur Tabaret ! ”

But the old fellow, who showed every
sign of the most intense agitation, was
scarcely disposed to stop, or to lose a single
minute.

“ You must excuse me,” he said, saluting
him, “ but I am expected at home.”

“ I hope, however — ”

“ Oh, he is innocent,” interrupted Pere
Tabaret. “ I have already some proofs ;
and before three days — But you are
going to see Gevrol’s man with the rings in
his ears. He is very acute, is this Gevrol ;
I have misjudged him.”

And, without listening to another word,
he hurried on, jumping down three steps
at a time, at the risk of breaking his neck.

Daburon, disappointed, also hastened
on.

In the gallery, before his office door, on
a bench of rough wood, sat Albert under
the charge of a garde de Paris.

“ You will be summoned immediately,”
said the judge to the prisoner, on opening
the door.

In the office, Constant was talking with
a little man of a sorry appearance, who
might be taken, from his dress, for an in-
habitant of the Batignoles, even without
the enormous false pin, which shone in his
cravat, and which betrayed the detective.

“ You received my letters ? ” asked
Daburon of his clerk. “ Monsieur, your
orders have been executed : the prisoner is
without ; and here is Martin, who has this
moment arrived from Les Invalides.”

“ That is very well,” said the magistrate
in a satisfied tone. And, turning towards
the detective, —

“ Well, Martin,” he asked, “ wha't have
you found ? ”

“ Monsieur, some one has climbed over
the wall.”

“ Lately ? ”

“ Five or six days ago.”

“ You are sure of this V ”

“ As sure as I am that I see Constant at
this moment mending his pen.”

“ The marks are plain ? ”

“ As plain as the nose on my face, if I
may so express myself. The thief — it was
done by a thief, I imagine — ” continued
Martin, who was a great talker, — “ the
thief entered before the rain, and returned
after it, as you had conjectured. This
circumstance is easy to establish, if you
examine the marks of the ascent and the
descent on the wall on the side towards
the street. These marks are holes, made
by the end of the boot. The first are
clean ; the others, muddy. The scamp —
he was a nimble fellow — entered by the

134

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

aid of his wrists and legs ; but, in going
out, he enjoyed the luxury of a ladder,
which he threw down as soon as he was
over. It is very evident where it was
placed below, by means of the holes made
by the fellow’s weight ; above, by the dis-
placed mortar.”

“Is that all ? ” asked the judge.

“ Not yet, monsieur. Three of the pieces
of bottle which covered the top of the wall
have been torn away. Many of the acacia
branches, which extend out over the wall,
have been bent and broken. From a thorn
of one of these branches, I took this little
piece of pearl gray kid, which appears to
me to have come from a glove.”

The judge took the piece with eager-
ness.

It was really a small fragment of a gray
glove.

“ You took care, I hope, Martin, not to
attract attention at the house where you
made this investigation ? ”

“ Certainly, monsieur. I examined the
exterior, at my leisure. After that, disguis-
ing myself at a wine merchant’s around the
corner, I called at the Marquise d’Arlanges’
house, giving myself out to be the servant
of a neighboring duchess, who was in des-
pair at having lost a favorite, and if I may
so speak, an eloquent paroquet. They
very kindly gave me permission to look in
the garden ; and, as I spoke as disrespect-
fully as possible of my pretended mistress,
they took me for an unmistakable servant.”

“ You are an adroit and prompt fellow,
Martin,” interrupted the judge. “ I am well
satisfied with you ; and I will report you
favorably at headquarters.”

He rang ; while the detective, delighted
at . the praises he had received, moved
backwards to the door, bowing the while.

Albert was then brought in.

“ Have you decided, monsieur,” asked
the judge of inquiry without preamble, “ to
give an account of how you spent Tuesday
evening ? ”

“ I have already given it, monsieur.”

“ No, monsieur, you have not ; and I re-
gret to say that you have told me a false-
hood.” ‘

Albert, at 'this apparent insult, turned
red ; and his eyes flashed.

“ I know all that you did on that even-
ing,” continued the judge; “because Jus-
tice, as I have already said, is ignorant of
nothing that it is important for it to
know.”

He sought Albert’s eye, met it, and said
slowly, —

“ 1 have seen Mademoiselle Claire
d’Arlanges.”

At that name, the prisoner’s features, re-
strained by a firm resolve not to betray
himself, relaxed.

The immense sensation of 'delight which
he must have felt can easily be imagined.
He was like a man who escapes by a mir-
acle from an imminent danger which he had
despaired of avoiding.

But he made no reply.

“ Mademoiselle d’Arlanges,” continued
the judge, “has told me where you were on
Tuesday evening.”

Albert still hesitated.

“ I am not setting a trap for you,” added
the judge. “ I give you my word of honor.
She has told me all, you understand ? ”

This time Albert decided to speak.

His explanations corresponded almost
exactly with Claire’s, — not one detail more.
Henceforth, doubt was impossible.

Mademoiselle d’Arlanges’ reliability had
not been shaken. Either Albert was inno-
cent, or she was his accomplice.

Could she knowingly be the accomplice
of this dreadful crime ? No ; she could not
even be suspected of it.

But now where to find the assassin ?

For, in the sight of Justice, when a crime
is once discovered, there must be a crimi-
nal.

“ You see, monsieur,” said the judge
severely to Albert, “ you did deceive me.
You risked your life, monsieur, and, what is
still more serious, you exposed me, you ex-
posed Justice, to a most deplorable mistake.
Why did you not tell me the truth ? ”

“ Monsieur,” replied Albert, “ Mademoi-
selle d’Arlanges, in according me a meet-
ing, trusted in my honor.”

“ And you would have died rather than
speak of this interview ? ” interrupted Dab-
uron with a touch of irony. “ That is very
fine, monsieur, worthy of the days "of chiv-
alry ! ”

“I am not the hero that you suppose,
monsieur,” replied the prisoner simply.
“ If I said that I did not count on Claire, I
should be telling a falsehood ; I was only
waiting for her. I knew that, on learning
of my arrest, she would brave every thing
to save me. But they might have hid it
from her ; that was my only fear. In that
case, however, they might have construed
my silence. I think I should not have
spoken her name.”

• There was no appearance of bravado.
What Albert said, he thought and felt.
Daburon repented his irony.

“ Monsieur,” he said kindly, “ you must
return to your prison. I cannot release
you yet ; but you will bo no longer in soli-
tary confinement. You will be treated

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

135

with every attention due a prisoner whose
innocence is at least probable.”

Albert bowed, and thanked him. He
was then removed by the garde.

“We are now ready for Gevrol,” said the
judge to his clerk.

The chief of detectives was absent : they
had inquired for him at the prefecture ; but
his witness, the man with the rings in his
ears, was without, in the gallery.

They told him to enter.

He was one of those short, thick set men,
powerful as oaks, of an iron frame, who
look as though they could carry almost
any weight on their broad shoulders.

His white hair and beard made his red
skin, burnt, scorched, tanned by the in-
clemencies of the weather, by the storms
of the sea and the sun of the tropics, ap-
pear the more hard favored and ugly.

He had large hands, blackened, hard,
callous, with the thumbs so broad and
knotted that they must have had the pres-
sure of a vise.

Large rings, in the form of an anchor,
hung from his ears. He wore the costume
of a well-to-do Norman fisher, when he is
dressed for a visit to the city, or for a jour-
ney.

The sheriff was obliged to force him into
the y^je.

: wolf from the coast was frightened
and abashed.

He advanced, balancing himself first on
one leg, then on the other, with that irreg-
' ular walk of the sailor, who, missing the
rolling and tossing of the ocean, is surprised
to find beneath his feet any thing so im-
movable as terra firma.

To give himself confidence, he fumbled
over his soft felt hat, adorned with little
lead saints, after the fashion of king Louis
XI. of illustrious memory, and adorned still
more with a round gances de laine , made
by some young country girl, in the primi-
tive style of four or five pins placed in a
bit of cork.

Daburon examined him, and saw his
worth at a glance.

There was no doubt but what this was
the red-faced man described by one of the
witnesses from Jonchere.

It was impossible also to doubt the hon-
esty of the man. His face breathed open-
heartedness and goodness.

“ Your name ? ” demanded the judge of
inquiry.

“ Marie Pierre Lerouge.”

“ You are, then, some relation of Clau-
dinc Lerouge ? ”

“ Her husband, monsieur.”

What, the husband of the victim alive,

and the police ignorant of even his exist-
ence !

That was Daburon’s first thought.

What, then, does this wonderful progress
in invention accomplish ?

To-day, precisely as twenty years ago,
when Justice is in doubt, it requires the
same inordinate loss of time and money to
obtain the slightest information.

On Friday, they had written to inquire
about Claudine’s past life ; it was now
Monday, and no reply had arrived.

And yet photography was in existence,
and the electric telegraph. They had at
their service a thousand means, formerly
unknown ; and they made no use of them.

“All the world,” said the judge, “be-
lieved her a widow. She herself pretended
to be one.”

“ Yes ; it was an arrangement between
ourselves. I told her that I would have
nothing more to do with her.”

“Indeed? Well, you know, I suppose,
that she is dead, — that she was the victim
of a dreadful crime ? ”

“ The officer who brought me here told
me of it, monsieur,” replied the sailor, his
face darkening. “ She was a wretch 1 ” he
added in a deep tone.

“ How ? You, her husband, revile her ? ”

“ I have good reason to, monsieur. Ah,
my dead father, who foresaw it all at tho
time, warned me ! I laughed, when he said,

‘ Take care, or she will dishonor you.’ He
was right. For her sake, I have been
hunted down by the police, just like some
skulking thief. Everywhere that they
have inquired after me with a description,
people will say, ‘ Ah, ha, he has committed
some crime ! *' And here I am before a
court of justice ! Ah, monsieur, what a dis-
grace ! The Lerouges have been honest
people, from father to son, since the world
began. Inquire through the country.
They will tell you, ‘ Lerouge’s word is as
good as another man’s writing.’ Yes, she
was a wicked woman ; and I have often
told her that she would come to a bad
end.”

“ You told her that ? ”

“ More than a hundred times, monsieur ”

“ Why ? Come, my friend, be assured ;
your honor is not at stake here: no one
doubts you. When did you warn her so
wisely ? ”

“ Ah, a long time ago, monsieur,” replied
the sailor'; “ the first time was more than
thirty years back. She had ambition in
her very blood ; she wished to mix her-
self in the intrigues of the great. It
was that that ruined her. She said that
you got money for preserving their secrets ;

136

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

and I said that }rou got disgrace along with
it. To put up your hands to hide the vil-
lainies of the rich, and to expect happi-
ness from it, is like making your bed of
thorns, in the hope of sleeping well. But
she had got it into her head ; and it
couldn’t be got out.”

“ You were her husband,” objected Dab-
uron ; “ you had the right to command her
obedience.”

The sailor struck his head, and heaved a
deep sigh.

“ Alas, monsieur ! it was I who did the
obeying.”

To proceed by short inquiries with a wit-
ness, when you have no idea of the infor-
mation he brings, is but to lose time in at-
tempting to gain it. When you think you
are approaching the important fact, you
may be just avoiding it. It is much better
to give the witness the rein, and to listen,
putting him on the track only when he gets
too far away. It is the surest and easiest
method. This was the course Daburon
pursued, all the time cursing Gevrol’s ab-
sence, as he by a single word could have
cut off a good half of the examination,
whose importance, by the way, the judge
did not even suspect.

“ In what intrigues did your wife min-
gle V ” asked the magistrate. “ Go on, my
friend, tell me exactly ; here, you know,
we must have not only the truth, but the
whole truth.”

Lerouge placed his hat on a chair.
Then he began alternately to twirl his fin-
gers, and snap them, and to scratch his
head violently. It was his way of arranging
his ideas.

“ I must tell you,” he began, “ that it is
thirty-five years since I fell in love with
Claudine, at St. Jean. She was a bright,
neat, fascinating girl, with a voice sweeter
than honey. She was the most beautiful
girl in the country, straight as a mast, sup-
ple as a willow, as fine and strong as a ship
of the line. Her eyes sparkled like old
cider. She had black hair, white teeth,
and her breath was sweeter than the sea-
breeze. The difficulty was, that she hadn’t
a sou, while our family were in easy cir-
cumstances. Her mother, who had been a
widow for some thirty-six years, was not,
saving your presence, much respected ; and
my father was the honestest man alive.
When I spoke to the old fellow of marry-
ing Claudine, he swore fiercely ; and eight
days after, he sent me to Porto on a
schooner belonging to one of our neigh-
bors, pretending that it was for change of
air. I came back, at the end of six months,
thinner than a marling spike, but more in

love than ever. Recollections of Claudine
scorched me like a fire. I was fool enough
to give up eating and drinking. I felt that
she loved me a little in return, seeing that
I was a stout young fellow, and more than
one girl had set her cap for me. Then my
father, seeing that he could do nothing,
that I was wasting away without saying
‘ boo ! ’ and was in a fair way to join my
mother in the cemetery, decided to let me
complete my folly. So one evening, after
we had returned from fishing, and I got up
from supper without tasting it, he said to
me, ‘ Marry the hag, and stop this sort of
thing.’ I remember it distinctly ; because,
at hearing the old fellow call my love such
a name, I flew into a passion, and almost
wanted to kill him. Ah, one never gains
any thing by marrying in opposition to
one’s parents ! ”

The brave sailor wandered in the midst
of his recollections. He was very far
from his story.

The judge of inquiry attempted to bring
him back into the right path.

“ Let us come to our business,” he said.

“ I am going to, monsieur ; but it is ne-
cessary to begin at the beginning. I mar-
ried. That evening, after the ceremony,
and when the relatives and invited guests
had departed, I went to join my wife,
when I perceived my father all alone in
one corner weeping. The sight touched
my heart ; and I had a foreboding of evil ;
but it quickly passed away. It is so delight-
ful, those first six months with a dearly
loved wife ! You seem to be surrounded
by mists, that change the very stones into
palaces and temples so completely that
novices are taken in. For two years, in
spite of a few little quarrels, every thing
went on nicely. Claudine managed me
like a charm. Ah, she was cunning 1 She
seized, bound, carried me to market and
sold me, while I was totally unconscious.
Her great fault was her extravagance.
All that I earned, — and my business was
very prosperous, — she put on her back.
Every week there was some new ornament,
dresses, jewels, bonnets, the devil’s baubles,
which merchants invent for the perdition
of the female sex. The neighbors chat-
tered ; but I thought it was all right. At
the baptism of our son, who was called
Jacques after my father, to please her, I
spent, regardless of my usual economy,
more than three hundred pistoles, — the
very sum with which I had intended buying
a meadow that lay in the midst of our prop-
erty.”

Daburon was boiling over with impa-
tience ; but what could he do ?

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

187

“ Go on, go on,” he said every time
Lerouge made the slightest appearance of
stopping.

“ I was well enough pleased,” continued
the sailor, “ until one morning I saw one
of the Count de Commarin’ s servants en-
tering our house, their chateau being only
a quarter of a mile from our house on
the other side of the town. There was
something peculiar about this Germain,
that I didn’t like at all. Then it was said
that he had been mixed up in that affair of
poor Thomassine, a young girl of our fam-
ily who attended on the countess, and who
one day suddenly disappeared. I asked
my wife what the fellow wanted; she re-
plied that he had come to engage her ser-
vices as wet nurse. I couldn’t understand
it ; for our means were sufficient to allow
Claudine to keep all her milk for our own
child. But she gave me the very best of
reasons. She wanted to earn a little money,
being ashamed of doing nothing, while I
was killing myself with work. She
wanted to save, to economize ; so that be-
fore long I might not be obliged to go to
sea any more. She was to get such a good
price, that, in a very little while, we could
save enough to replace the three hundred
pistoles, and buy the meadow after all.
That confounded meadow decided me.”

“ Did she not tell you of the commission
with which she was charged ? ”

This question astonished Lerouge. He
thought that it was said very properly that
justice sees and knows every thing.

“ Not then,” he answered ; “ but you shall
see. Eight days after, the postman brought
a letter, asking her to come to Paris to get
the child. It arrived in the evening.

‘ Very well,’ said she, ‘ I will start to-mor-
row by the diligence.’ I didn’t say a word
then ; but next morning, when she was
about to take her seat in the diligence, I
declared that I was going with her. She
didn’t seem at all angry. On the contrary,
she seemed pleased ; at which of course I
was delighted. At Paris, she was to get
the little one at Madame Gerdy’s, who
lived on the Boulevarde. We arranged
that she was to go alone, while I waited for
her at our inn. After she had gone, I grew
jealous. I went out in about an hour, and
prowled about Madame Gerdy’s house,
making inquiries of the servants and of
the passers by, until I discovered that she
was the mistress of the Count de Com-
marin. Of course I was in a passion ; and,
if I had been master, my wife should have
gone back without the little scamp. A
nice sort of thing to be mixed up in, to be
sure, I thought.”

The judge of inquiry moved uneasily
in his chair. “ Will this man never end ? ”
he muttered.

“ Yes, you are perfectly right,” he said ;

“ but never mind your thoughts. Go on,
go on ! ”

“ Claudine, monsieur, was more obstinate
than a mule. After three days of violent
discussion, and by the wicked snares of
kissing and embracing, she tore from me
a reluctant consent. Then she told me
that we were not to return home by dili-
gence. The lady, who feared the fatigue
of the journey for her child, had arranged
that we should carry him back by short
stages in her carriage, and drawn by her
horses. That was keeping up grand style.

I was ass enough to be delighted, because
it gave me a chance to see the country at
my leisure. We were installed with the
children, mine and the other, in an elegant
carriage, drawn by magnificent animals,
driven by a coachman in livery. My wife
was mad with joy, and chinked the gold
in my face. I was angry, as an honest
husband should be, who sees money in the
family which he didn’t earn. At seeing
my couhtenance, Claudine, hoping to pacify
me, resolved to tell me the whole truth.

‘ See here,’ she said to me, — ”

Lerouge stopped, and, changing his tone,
said, —

“ You understand that it is my wife who
is speaking ? ”

“ Yes, yes. Goon.”

“ She said to me, shaking her purse, ‘ See
here, my man, we shall never want again ;
and here’s the reason : the count, who has
a legitimate child of the same age as this,
wishes that this youngster shall bear his
name instead of the other ; and this can
only be accomplished through me. On the
road, we are to meet at an inn, where we
arc to lodge, Germain, and the nurse to
whom they have entrusted the legitimate
child : we are to be put in the same cham-
ber ; and, during the night, I am to ex-
change the little ones, as they arc very
much alike, one for the other. The count
is to give eight thousand francs for it, and
an annuity of a thousand francs.’ ”

“ And you,” cried the judge, “you, who
call yourself an honest man, permitted such
a villainy, when one word would have been
sufficient to prevent it Y ”

“ Excuse me, monsieur,” remonstrated
Lerouge; “if you would only let me
finish.”

“ Well, go on.”

“ I could say nothing, then, I was so
choked with rage. I was dismayed. But
she burst out laughing, — she was always

138

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

afraid of me when I asserted myself, — and
said, ‘ What a fool you are I Listen, before
you sour like a dish of milk. The count
is the only one who wants this change
made ; and he is the one that’s to pay for
it. His mistress, this little one’s mother,
doesn’t want it at all ; but she seems to
consent, so as not to quarrel with her lover,
and because she has got a plan of her own.
She took me aside, during my visit in her
room ; and, after having made me swear
secrecy on a crucifix, she told me this plan.
She said that she couldn’t bear the idea of
separating herself from her babe forever, and
of bringing up another’s child ; so she said,
that, if I would agree not to change the chil-
dren, keeping mum about it to the count,
she would give me ten thousand francs
down, and guarantee me an annuity equal
to what the count was to give me. She
declared, also, that she could easily find
out whether I kept my word, as she had
made a mark of recognition on her little
one. She didn’t show me the mark ; and
I have examined him carefully, but can’t
find it. Do you understand now ? I am
simply to take care of this little fellow here.

I am to tell the count that I have made
the exchange. We fill our pockets from
both sides ; and our little Jacques will be
a rich man. What do you think of your
wife now ? Has she more cleverness than
you, eh ? ’ That, monsieur, is word for
word what Claudine said to me.”

The rough sailor drew from his pocket
a large blue-checked handkerchief, and
blew his nose so violently that the windows
shook. It was his way of weeping.

Daburon was confounded.

Since the beginning of this wretched
affair, he had encountered astonishment
after astonishment. Scarcely had he got
his ideas in order on any one point, when
something new arose which utterly routed
them again.

He felt confused. What was this new
and grave information ? What did it
mean ?

He longed to investigate it instantly ;
but he saw that Lerouge was getting on
with difficulty, laboriously disentangling
his memories, guided by a well-stretched
thread, which the least interruption would
break.

“ What Claudine proposed to me,” con-
tinued the sailor, “ was villainous ; and I
was an honest man. But she kneaded me
to her will as easily as a baker kneads a
pate. She overcame my heart ; she made me
see that white as snow which was really as
black as ink. How I loved her ! She proved
to me that we were wronging no one, and

that we were making little Jacques’s fortune
and I was silenced. At evening, we arrived
at some village ; and the coachman, stopping
the carriage before an inn, told us we were
to lodge there. We entered, and who do
you think we saw ? That scamp, Germain,
with a nurse, carrying a child so exactly
like the one we had that I was startled.
They had journeyed there, like ourselves,
in one of the count’s carriages. A suspi-
cion came over me. How could I be sure
that Claudine had not invented the second
story to pacify me ? She was certainly
capable of it. I was enraged. I would
consent to the one wickedness, but not to
the other. I resolved not to lose sight of
our little chap, swearing that they shouldn’t
cheat me : so I kept him all the evening
on my knees ; and, to make it the surer, I
tied my handkerchief about his waist. Ah 1
their plan was well laid. After supper,
they spoke of turning in ; and then it was
found that there were only two rooms
and two beds to spare in the house. It
seemed as though it was built expressly
for our scheme. The innkeeper said that
the two nurses might sleep in one room,
and Germain and myself in the other.
You understand, monsieur V Add to this,
that during the entire evening I had sur-
prised looks of intelligence passing between
my wife and that rascally servant, and you
can imagine how furious I was. It was
conscience that spoke ; and I was trying to
silence it. I know very well that I was
doing wrong ; and I almost wished my-
self dead. Why is it these scamps caji
almost twist an honest man’s spirit around
like a weather-cock with every breath of
their rascality ? ”

Daburon’s only reply was a blow of his
fist, almost powerful enough to break his
desk.

Lerouge at that proceeded more quickly.

“ As for me, I stopped the business, pre-
tending to be too jealous to leave my wife
a minute. Every thing turned out as I
wished. The other nurse went into the
room first. Claudine and I followed soon
afterwards. My wife laid down in her
clothes by the side of the other nurse and
child. I installed myself in a chair near the
bed, determined to keep one eye open, and
to mount close watch. I put out the candle,
in order to let the women sleep ; as for me,
I could scarcely think. My ideas drove
away sleep ; and I thought of my father,
and what he would say, if he ever knew
what I was doing. Towards midnight, I
heard Claudine moving. I held my breath.
She arose. Was she going to change the
children ? At one moment, I thought not ;

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

139

the next, I felt sure she was. I was beside
myself; and, seizing her by the arm, I com-
menced to beat her roughly, letting loose
all that I had on my heart. I spoke in a
loud voice, as on a ship in a high wind. I
swore like a fiend. I raised a frightful
disturbance. The other nurse cried out,
as if she were having her throat cut. At
this uproar, Germain rushed in with a
lighted candle. The sight of him finished
me. Not knowing what I was doing, I
drew from my pocket a Spanish knife,
which I always carried, and, . seizing the
cursed baby, I ran the blade across his
arm, crying, ‘ This fellow, at least, can’t be
changed without my knowing it ; • he is
marked for life 1 ’ ”

Lerouge could go on no further.

Great drops of sweat stood out upon his
forehead, and, flowing down his cheeks,
lodged in the deep wrinkles of his face.

He panted ; and the stern glance from
the judge oppressed him, harassed him,
urging him on, just as the whip urges on
the negro overcome with fatigue.

“ The wound on the little fellow,” he
continued, “ was terrible. It bled dread-
fully ; and he might have died : but I
didn’t stop at that. I was troubled about
the future, about what might happen after-
wards ; so I determined to write out all
that had occurred, and to have all sign it.
This was done : we all four signed. Ger-
main didn’t dare resist ; for I 'spoke with
knife in hand. He wrote his name first,
begging me only to say nothing about it to
tlie°count, swearing that, for his part, he
would never breathe a word of it, and
pledging the other nurse to a like secrecy.”

“ And have you kept this paper ? ” asked
Daburon.

“ Yes, monsieur : and as the officer, to
whom I confessed all, advised me to bring
it with me, I went to the place where I
always kept it ; and I have it here.”

“ Give it to me.” .

Lerouge took from the pocket of his
roundabout an old parchment pocket-book,
fastened with a leather strap, and drew out
a paper yellowed by age and careful
hiding*

. “ Here it is,” said he. “ The paper
hasn’t been opened since that cursed night.”

As the judge unfolded it, ashes fell out,
which had been used to keep the writing,
when wet, from blotting.

It was really a brief description of the
scene, described by the old sailor. The
four signatures were all there.

« What has become of the witnesses who
signed this paper?” muttered the judge,
speaking to himself.

Lerouge thought the question was put to
him.

“ Germain is dead,” he replied ; “ I have
been told that he was killed in some broil
or other. Claudine has been assassinated ;
but the other nurse still lives. She told
the affair to her husband, I know ; for he
hinted as much to me. Her name is Bros-
sette ; and she lives in the village of Cora-
marin itself.”

“ Is there any thing else ? ” asked the
judge, after having taken down the name
and address of this woman.

“ The next day, monsieur, Claudine
tried to pacify me, and to extort, a promise
of silence. The child was hardly sick at
all ; but he retained an enormous scar on
his arm.” .

“Was Madame Gerdy kept in ignorance
of what had passed ? ”

“ I do not think so, monsieur ; but I am
not sure.”

“ How ? not sure .? ”

“ Yes, monsieur. You see my ignorance
came of what happened afterwards.”

“ What did happen ? ”

The sailor hesitated.

“ That, monsieur, concerns only me
and — ”

“ My friend,” interrupted the judge, “ you
are an honest man, I believe ; in fact, 1 am
sure. But once in your life, influenced by
a wicked woman, you did wrong, — you
became an accomplice in a very great
crime. Repair that error, by speaking
truly now. All that is said here, and
which is not directly connected with the
crime, remains secret ; even I will forget it
immediately. Fear nothing and, if you
experience some humiliation, remember it
is your punishment for the past.”

“ Alas, monsieur,” answered the sailor,
“I have been already punished; It is a
long time since my trouble began. Money,
wickedly acquired, brings no good. On
arriving home, I bought the wretched
meadow for much more than it was worth ;
and, the day I walked t over it, feeling that
it was actually mine, closed my happiness.
Claudine was a coquette ; but she had vices
still worse. When she realized how much
money we had, these vices burst forth, just
as a fire, smouldering at the bottom of the
hold, bursts forth when you open the hatches.
Instead of the slight eater she had been,
her appetite got to be enormous enough,
saving your presence, to strike you with
horror. There was feasting in our house
without end. When I would go to sea, she
would entertain the worst scoundrels in the
country ; and there was nothing too good
or too expensive for them. She took to

140

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

drinking, too ; so that she was half her time
far from sober. One night, when she
thought me at Rouen, I unexpectedly
returned. I entered, and found her with
the head bailiff’ of the town. I might have
killed him, like the vermin that he was : it
was my right ; but I had pity on him. I
took him by the neck and pitched him out
the window, without opening it. It didn’t
kill him, more’s the pity ! Then I fell upon
my wife, and beat her until she couldn’t
stir.”

Lerouge spoke in a harsh voice, now
and then thrusting his restless hands into
his eyes.

“ I pardoned her,” he continued ; “ and
the man who beats his wife and then par-
dons her is lost. In the future, she only
takes better precautions, — becomes more
of a hypocrite. In the mean while, Mad-
ame Gerdy had taken back her child ; and
Claudine had nothing more to restrain her.
Protected and counselled by her mother,
whom she had taken to live with us, and
who took care of our Jacques, she man-
aged to deceive me for more than a year.
I thought she had recovered her better
senses ; but not at all : she lived a terrible
life. My house became the resort of all the
good-for-nothing rogues in the country, for
whom my wife brought out bottles of wine
and brandy ; and, while I was away at sea,
they got drunk promiscuously. When
money failed, she wrote to the count or his
mistress; and the orgies continued. Oc-
casionally I had doubts which disturbed
me ; and then without reason, for a simple
yes or no, I would beat her until she was
even more thirsty, and after that pardon
like a coward, like an imbecile. It was a
hard life. I don’t know which gave me the
most pleasure, embracing her or beating
her. Everybody in the village despised
me, and turned their backs on me ; they be-
lieved me an accomplice or a willing dupe.
I heard, afterwards, that they believed I
shared the profits of my wife’s conduct ;
while in reality there were no profits. At
all events, they wondered where all the
money came from that was spent in my
house. To distinguish me from a cousin of
mine, also named Lerouge, they tacked on
an infamous word to my name. What dis-
grace 1 And I knew nothing of all the
scandal, — no, nothing. Would that I had
never married ! Fortunately, though, my
father was dead.”

Daburon pitied him sincerely.

“ Rest yourself, my friend,” he said ;
“ wait an instant.”

“ No,” replied the sailor, “ I would
rather get through with it quickly. One

man, the priest, had the charity to tell me
of it. Never had such a thing happened
to a Lerouge ! Without losing a moment,
I sought a lawyer, and asked him how an
honest man ought to act who had had the
misfortune to marry such a woman. He
said that nothing could be done. To go to
law was simply to publish one’s own dis-
honor; while a separation would accom-
plish nothing. When once a man has
given his name to a woman, he told me, he
could no longer take it back : he had
shared it with her for the rest of her life ;
she had the right to keep it. She may
sully it, cover it with mire, drag it from
wine-shop to wine-shop; and the husband
can do nothing. That being the case, my
course was soon taken. That same day I
sold the fatal meadow, and sent the price
of it to Claudine, wishing to keep nothing
of the price of shame. I then drew up a
paper, authorizing her to use our property,
but not allowing her either to sell or mort-
gage it. Then I wrote a letter to her, in
which I told her that she need never ex-
pect to speak with me again ; that I was
nothing more to her, and that she might
look upon herself as a widow : and that
night I went away with my son.”

“ And what became of your wife after
your departure V ”

“I cannot say, monsieur: I only know
that she quitted the country a year after I
did.”

“ You have never seen her since ? ”

“ Never.”

“ But you were at her house three days
before this crime was committed.”

“ That is true, monsieur ; but that was
absolutely necessary. I had been at much
trouble to find her : no one knew what had
become of her. Fortunately my notary
was able to procure Madame Gerdy’s ad-
dress. He wrote to her ; and that is how I
knew that Claudine was living at Jonchere.
I had just come from Rouen. Capt.
Gervais, who is a friend of mine, offered to
bring me to Paris on his boat; and I ac-
cepted. Ah, monsieur, what a shock I ex-
perienced when I entered her house 1 My
wife did not know me ! By constantly tell-
ing the world that I was dead, slip had
without a doubt ended by believing it her-
self. When I told my name, she fell back.
The wretched woman had not changed in
the least ; she had by her side a glass and
a bottle of brandy — ”

“ All this doesn’t explain why you were
seeking your wife.”

“ It was on Jacques’s account, monsieur,
that I went. The little boy has grown to
be a man ; and he is anxious to marry.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

141

For that, his mother’s consent is necessary ;
and I was taking to Claudine a paper,
which the notary had drawn up, and which
she signed. Here it is now.”

Daburon took the paper, and appeared
to read it attentively. After a moment he
asked, —

“ Have you tried to think who could
have assassinated your wife ? ”

Lerouge made no reply.

“ Have you had suspicions of any one ? ”
persisted the judge.

“ Well, monsieur,” replied the sailor,
** what can I say ? It might be that Clau-
dine had wearied out these people from
whom she drew money, like water from a
well ; or perhaps, getting drunk some day,
she blabbed too freely.”

The testimony being as full as^ possible,
Daburon discharged Lerouge, at the same
time advising him to wait for Gevrol, who
would take him to a hotel, where he might
wait, at the disposal of justice, until further
orders.

“ All your expenses will be repaid you,”
added the judge.

Lerouge had scarcely turned on his heel,
when an event grave, extraordinary, un-
heard of, unprecedented, took place in the
office of the judge of inquiry.

Constant, the serious, impassive, immov-
able, deaf and dumb Constant, arose and
spoke.

He broke a silence of fifteen years. He
forgot himself so far as to offer an opinion.

He said, —

“ This, monsieur, is a most extraordinary
affair.”

Very extraordinary, truly, thought Dab-
uron. putting to rout all predictions, all
preconceived opinions.

Why had he, the judge, moved with
such deplorable haste ? Why, before risk-
ing any thing, had he not waited to possess
alf the elements of this weighty matter, to
hold all the threads of this complicated
plot ?

Justice is accused of slowness ; but it is
this very slowness that constitutes its
strength and surety, its almost infallibil-
ity.

One cannot know, on the instant, what
course the testimony will take.

There is no knowing what facts investi-
gations apparently useless may reveal.

The dramas of the court of assize lose
much by not observing the unities.

When the labyrinth of the various pas-
sions and motives seems inextricable, an
unknown personage presents himself*, com-
ing from, no one knows where ; and it is he
who brings on the denouement.

Daburon, usually the most prudent of
men, had considered as simple one of the
most complex of cases. He had acted in
a mysterious crime, which demanded the
utmost caution, as carelessly as though it
were a case of simple misdemeanor. Why ?
Because his memory had not left free his
deliberation, his judgment, his discern-
ment. He had feared equally appearing
weak and appearing revengeful Thinking
himself sure of his facts, he had been car-
ried away by his animosity. And yet how
often had he deceived himself with the
idea of duty ! But then, when you are at
all doubtful about your duty, you are always
on a false track.

The singular part of it all was, that the
faults of the judge of inquiry sprang from
his very honesty. He had been led astray
by a too great refinement of conscience.
The scruples which troubled him had filled
his mind with phantoms, had pushed him
even to a passionate animosity.

Calmer now, he examined the matter
more soundly. As a whole, thank heaven 1
there was nothing done which could not be
repaired. He accused himself, however,
none the less hardly. Chance alone had
stopped him. On the instant, he resolved
that this examination should be his last.
His profession henceforth could inspire
him only with an unconquerable loathing.
Then his interview with Claire had opened
all the old wounds in his heart ; and they
bled more dreadfully than ever. He felt,
in despair, that his life was broken, ruined.
A man may well feel so, when all women
are as nothing to him except one, whom he
may never hope to possess.

Too religious to think of suicide, he asked
himself with anguish what would become of
him when he should throw aside his judge’s
robes.

Then he returned again to the business
in hand. In any case, innocent or guilty,
Albert was really the Viscount de Com-
marin, the count’s legitimate son. But was
he guilty ? Plainly not.

“ I think,” he cried out suddenly, “ I had
better speak to the Count de Commarin.
Constant, send to his house and bring him
here at once ; if he is not at home, have
him sought for.”

Daburon felt that an unpleasant duty
was before him. He should have to say to
the old gentleman, “ Monsieur, I was mista-
ken about your legitimate son ; you have
still the right one with you.” What a po-
sition, not only painful, but bordering on
the ridiculous ! As a compensation, though,
he could tell him that Albert was inno-
cent.

142

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

To Noel he must also tell the truth, must
hurl him to earth, after having raised
him among the clouds. What a blow it
would be ! But, without a doubt, the
count would make him some compensation ;
at least, he ought to.

“ Now,” muttered the judge, “ who can
be the criminal ? ”

A dark suspicion flashed across his brain,
which immediately after appeared to him ut-
terly absurd. He rejected it, then thought
of it again. He trfrned and returned it,
examined it in all its various aspects. He
was almost decided, when M. de Commarin
entered.

Daburon’s messenger had arrived just as
he was alighting from his carriage, on
returning with Claire from Madame
Gerdy’s.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Pere Tabaret had spoken ; but he had
also acted.

Abandoned by the judge of inquiry to
his own resources, he went to work with-
out losing a moment’s time and without tak-
ing a moment’s rest.

The story of the cabriolet, drawn by a
swift horse, was exact jn every particular.

Lavish with his money, the old fellow
had gathered together a dozen detectives
on leave or out of work ; and at the head
of these worthy assistants, seconded by his
friend Lecoq, he had gone to Bougival.

He had actually searched the country,
house by house, with the obstinacy and the
patience of a maniac hunting for a needle
in a hay-stack.

His efforts were not absolutely wasted.

After three days’ investigation, he felt
comparatively sure of this : the assassin
had not loft the cars at Rueil, as all the
people of Bougival, Jonchere, and Marly
do, but had gone on as far as Chatou.

Tabaret thought he recognized him in a
man, described to him by the employes at
that station as still young, of brown com-
plexion, with a pair of black whiskers, la-
den with a great coat and an umbrella.

This traveller, who arrived by the train
which left Paris for St. Germain at thirty-
five minutes past eight in the evening, had
appeared very depressed.

On quitting the station, he had started
off at a rapid pace on the road which led
to Bougival. Upon the way, two men
from Marly and a woman from Malmaison
had noticed him, and wondered at his long
strides. He smoked all the way.

On crossing the bridge which joins the
two banks of the Seine at Bougival, he had
been again noticed.

It is usual to pay a toll on crossing
this bridge ; and the supposed assassin had
apparently forgotten this circumstance.

He had passed without paying, keeping
up his rapid pace, pressing his elbows to
his side, husbanding his breath; and the
gate-keeper was obliged to rush after him
for his pay. .

He appeared much provoked at this
circumstance, threw down a ten sous’ piece,
and went on, without waiting for the forty-
five centimes due him as change.

Nor was that all.

The station agent at Rueil remembered,
that, two minutes before the quarter past
ten train passed, a traveller arrived agita-
ted, and so out of breath that he could
scarcely ask for a ticket — a second class
ticket — for Paris.

The appearance of this man corresponded
exactly to the description given of him by
his employes, at Chatou, and by the gate-
keeper at the bridge.

Finally, the old man got on the track of
an individual who bad occupied the same
compartment with him.

He proved to be a baker of Asnieres;
and he had written to him, asking an inter-
view.

Such was Pere Tabaret’s balance sheet,
when on Monday morning he presented
himself at the palias de justice, in order to
hear if there had been any information
received as to the Widow Lerouge’s past
life.

He found that none had arrived ; but in
the gallery he met Gevrol and his man.

The chief of detectives was triumphant,
and showed it, too. On seeing Tabaret,
he called out, —

“ Ah, well, my illustrious bird’s-nest
hunter, what news ? Have you found
any more mare’s nests, since the other day ?
Ah, you old rogue, you are aiming for my
place 1 ”

The old man was sadly changed.

The consciousness of his mistake made
him humble and meek. These pleasantries,
which a few days before would have made
him angry, now did not touch him. Instead
of replying, he bowed his head in such a
penitent manner that Gevrol was aston-
ished

“Jeer at me, my good Gevrol,” he re-
plied, “ mock me without pity : you are
right ; I deserve it all.”

“ Ah,” said the chief, “ you have per-
formed some new masterpeice,- my ardent
old fellow ! ”

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

143

P&re Tabaret shook his head sadly.

“ I have delivered up an innocent man,”
he said; “and justice will not give him
back to me.”

Gevrol was delighted, and rubbed his
hands until he almost wore away the skin.

“ This is fine,” he sang out, “ this is cap-
ital. To bring criminals to justice is of no
account at all ; but to free the innocent,
Jove 1 that is the last touch of art. Papa
Tirauclair, you are a wonder ; and I bow
before you.”

At the same time, he lifted his hat ironi-
cally.

“ Don’t crush me,” replied the old fellow.
“ As you know, in spite of my gray hairs,
I am young in the profession. Because
chance has served me three or four times, I
had become foolishly proud. I learned too
late that I was not all that I had thought
myself. I was but an apprentice, and suc-
cess had turned my head ; while you, Gev-
rol, you were always my master. In the
^lace of laughing, pray help me, aid me
with your counsels and your experience.
Alone, I can do nothing as well as if I had
your assistance.”

Gevrol was elated in the highest degree.

Tabaret’s submission, which he really
thought a great deal of at heart, tickled
his pretentions as a detective immensely.

He was softened.

“ I suppose,” he said patronizingly, “ you
refer to the Jonchere matter.”

“ Alas ! yes, dear Gevrol, I wished to
go on without you ; but I have been
dished.”

Tabaret’s old cunning kept his counte-
nance as penitent as that of a sacristan,
surprised while cooking meat on Friday;
but at heart he was laughing and rejoicing
all the while.

“ Conceited simpleton 1 ” he thought, “ I
will flatter you so that you will end by
doing just what I want you to.”

Gevrol rubbed his nose, put out his
lower lip, and said, “ Ah, — hem ! ”

He pretended to hesitate ; but it was only
because he enjoyed prolonging the old
amateur’s discomfiture.

“ Come,” said he at last, “ cheer up, Papa
Tirauclair. I am a good fellow at heart ;
and I’ll give you a lift. It is kind in me,
isn’t it r But, to-day, I am entirely too
busy. I am expected below now. Come
to me to-morrow morning, and we’ll talk
it. over. But before we part I’ll give you
a li<dit to find your way with. Do you
know who this witness is that I have
brought Y ”

“ No ; but tell me, my good Gevrol.”

“ Well, that fellow on the bench there,

who is waiting for Monsieur Daburon, is
the husband of the victim of the Jonchfcre
tragedy ! ”

“ It is impossible,” said Pere Tabaret
stunned. Then, after reflecting, he added,
“ you are joking with me.”

“ No, upon my word. Go ask him his
name ; he will tell you that he is called
Pierre Lerouge.”

“ She wasn’t a widow then ? ”

“ It appears not,” replied Gevrol sarcas-
tically, “ since there i3‘ her happy spouse.”

“ Whew ! ” muttered the old fellow.
“ And does he bring any information ? ”

In a few sentences, the chief explained
to his amateur colleague the story that Le-
rouge was about to give to the judge of
inquiry.

“ What do you say to that ? ” he de-
manded at the end.

“ What do I say to that ? ” stammered
Pere Tabaret, whose countenance indicated
intense astonishment, “ what do I say to
that ? I don’t say any thing. But I think,
— no, I don’t think at all ! ”

“ A tile has fallen, eh, what ? ” said Gev-
rol beaming. t

“ Say rather a blow of a club,” replied
Tabaret.

But suddenly he recovered himself, giv-
ing his forehead a hard blow with his fist.

“ And my baker 1 ” he cried, “ to-mor-
row, then, Gevrol.”

“ lie is crazed,” thought the chief of de-
tectives.

The old fellow was sane enough ; but he
had entirely forgotten the Asnieres baker,
whom he had appointed to meet at his
house. He might find him there still.

On the stairway he met Daburon ; but
he hardly deigned to reply to him.

He was soon out, and trotting like a lean
cat along the quays.

“ There ; we’ll fix it all right,” he said
to himself. “ Noel may feel bad but he
shan’t suffer. Pshaw ! if he likes, I’ll
adopt him. Tabaret doesn’t sound so well
as Commarin, but it’s at least a name. No
matter. Gevrol’s story affects in no way
Albert’s situation nor my convictions. He
is the legitimate son ; so much the better
for him. That doesn’t in any way prove
his innocence, though, unless I am mis-
taken. He evidently knows nothing of
these surprising circumstances, any more
than his father. He must believe, as well
as the count, in the substitution having
taken place. Madame Gerdy, too, must
have- been ignorant of these facts; they
must have invented some story to explain
the scar. But then she must have known
that Noel was really her son ; for she had

144

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

placed a mark of recognition upon him,
winch she of course examined when he was
returned to her. Then, when Noel discov-
ered the count’s letters, she must have has-
tened to explain to him — ”

Pere Tabaret stopped as suddenly as if
his path were obstructed by a dangerous
reptile.

He was terrified at the conclusion he
had reached.

“ Noel, then, must be the assassin of the
Widow Lerouge, that he might prevent her
confessing that the substitution never took
place ; and he burnt the letters and papers
which proved it ! ”

But he pushed away with horror this
supposition, as every honest man drives
away a detestable thought which by acci-
dent gets into his mind.

“ What an old fool I am ! ” he exclaimed,
resuming his walk ; “ this is the result of
the dreadful profession I used to glory in
following. Suspect Noel, my boy, my sole
heir, the personification of virtue and
honor, — Noel, whom ten years of constant
intercourse have taught me to esteem and
admire to such a degree that I would
speak for him as I would for myself ? Men
of his class must have terrible passions to
push them to shedding blood : and I have
never known Noel to have but two pas-
sions, his mother, and his profession. And
I dare even to breathe a suspicion against
this noble character ! I ought to be
whipped. Old fool ! isn’t the lesson you
have already received sufficiently terrible ?
Will you never be more cautious ? ”

Thus he reasoned, forcing himself to re-
pel these disquieting thoughts, and re-
straining his habits of investigation ; but
in his heart a tormenting voice constantly
whispered, “ Could it be Noel ? ”

Pere Tabaret arrived at the Rue St. La-
zare. Before his door stood an elegant
blue coupe', drawn by a magnificent horse.
Mechanically he stopped.

“ A handsome animal I ” he said ; “ my
lodgers must be receiving some fine call-
ers.”

They were apparently receiving very
bad ones, too ; for, at that moment, he saw
Clergeot coming out, honest Clergeot,
whose presence in a house betrayed ruin
just as surely as the presence of under-
takers indicate death.

The old detective, who knew everybody,
was well acquainted with the honest banker.
He had even had business with him once,
examining his books.

He stopped him.

“ Halloa 1 you old crocodile,” said he ;
“ you have business, then, in my house ? ”

“ So it seems,” replied Clergeot dryly,
not liking to be treated with such famih-
arity.

“ Hold on 1 ” shouted Pere Tabaret.

And, urged by the very natural curios-
ity of a proprietor very careful about the
kind of lodgers he takes, he added, —

“ Who the devil are you ruining now ? ”

“ I never ruin any one,” replied Clergeot,
with an air of offended dignity. “ Have
you ever had reason to complain of me in
our affairs ? I think not. Ask the young
advocate up there, who does business with
me, if you like ; lie will tell you whether
he lias reason to regret knowing me.”

Tabaret was painfully impressed.

What, Noel, the prudent Noel, one of
Clergeot’s customers 1 What could that
mean ? Perhaps there was no harm in it ;
but he remembered the fifteen thousand
francs of Thursday.

“Yes,” said he, wishing to get a little
more information, “ I know that young Ger-
dy spends a pretty round sum.”

Clergeot was always sensitive, and never
left his profession undefended when at-
tacked.

“It isn’t he personally,” he objected,
“ who makes the money dance ; it’s that
charming little girl of his. Ah, she’s a great
one ; she’d eat the devil, hoofs, horns, and
all 1 ”

What, a mistress, — a creature whom
Clergeot himself, fond of the little girls,
considered expensive ! This revelation, at
this time, pierced the old man to the heart.
But he dissembled. A gesture, a look,
might awaken the usurer’s defiance, and
close his mouth.

“ That’s well known,” he replied, in as
careless a tone as he could muster ; “ youth
must have something to amuse itself with.
But what do you suppose that this little
girl costs him a year ? ”

“ Oh, I don’t know ! He is wrong in not
limiting her. According to my calculation,
she must have, during the four years that
he has had her, cost him in the neighbor-
hood of five hundred thousand francs.”

Four years? Five hundred thousand
francs !

These words, these figures, burst like a
bombshell on Tabaret’s brain.

A half million !

In that case, Noel must be utterly ruined.
But then —

“ It is a great deal,” said he, succeeding
by desperate efforts in hiding his suffer-
ings ; “ it is enormous ; but then, Gerdy
has resources.”

“ He ? ” interrupted the usurer, shrug-'
! ging his shoulders. “ Not a bit of it,” he

THE WIDOW LEROUG-E.

145

added, snapping liis fingers ; “ he is utterly-
ruined. But, if he owes you money, never
fear. He is a sly dog : he is going to get
married. I have just renewed his notes for
twenty-six thousand francs, on that under-
standing. Au reooir, Monsieur Tabaret.”

The usurer hurried away, leaving the
poor old fellow standing still as a stone in
the street.

He experienced something of that terri-
ble grief which breaks a father’s heart, when
he begins to realize that his dearly-loved
son is perhaps the worst of scoundrels.

And, moreover, such was his confidence
in Noel that he struggled with his reason
to again resist the suspicion which torment-
ed him. Might not this usurer be slander-
ing the advocate ?

People who demand more than ten per
cent are capable of any thing. Evidently
he had exaggerated the extent of Noel’s
follies.

And, even if it were true, have not
many men done just such insane things
for women, without ceasing to be honest ?

He was about entering his door.

A whirlwind of silk, lace, and velvet
barred the passage.

A bright young brunette was coming out.

She jumped as lightly as a bird into the
blue coupe.

Pere Tabaret was a gallant man, and the
young girl was most charming; but he
never even glanced at her.

He entered ; and beneath the arch he
found his porter standing, cap in hand, look-
ing tenderly with his one eye at a twenty
franc piece.

“ Ah, monsieur,” said the man, “ such a
fine lady, so ladylike! If you had only
been here five minutes sooner.”

“ What lady ? why ? ”

“ This fine lady, who just went out, mon-
sieur, she came to inquire about Monsieur
Gerdy. She gave me twenty francs for
answering her questions. It. seems that
monsieur is going to be married; and she
was evidently much excited at. it. Superb
creature ! I know now why he is out every
night.”

“ Monsieur Gerdy ? ”

“ Yes, monsieur ; but I have never spo-
ken to. you of it, because he seemed to hide
it. He never asked me to open for him :
no, he wasn’t such a fool. He slipped out
by the little back gate. I said to myself,
‘ He don’t want to disturb me : it is very
thoughtful on his part; and he seems to
enjoy it so.’ ”

The porter spoke with his eye constantly
fixed on the gold piece.

When he raised his head to examine the

10

countenance of his master, Tabaret had
disappeared.

“ There is another fine fellow ! ” said
the porter to himself. “ A hundred sous,
that master runs after the superb creature.
Run ahead ; go it, old graybeard.” The
porter was right. Pere Tabaret did run
after the lady in the blue coupe

He thought, “ She will tell me all ‘r ” and
instantly he was in the street. .

He reached it just in time to seethe blue
coupe turn the corner of the Rue St. La-
zare.

“ Heavens ! ” he muttered. “ I shall lose
sight of her, just when the truth is in my
grasp.”

He was in one of those states of nervous
excitement which call forth prodigies.

He ran to the end of the Rue St. Lazare
as rapidly as if he had been a young man
of twenty.

Joy ! Five steps from him he saw the
blue coupe in the Rue Havre, stopped in
the midst of a blockade of carriages.

“ I have her,” he murmured.

He looked all through the neighborhood
of the Ouest, that street where unemployed
carriages are almost invariably roving ; not
a carriage !

Gladly would he have cried, like Richard
the III.,—

“ My kingdom for a hackney coach.”

The blue coupe got out of the entangle-
ment, and started off rapidly towards the
Rue Tronchet. The old fellow followed
after.

He kept his ground. The coupe gained
but little upon him.

While he was running in the middle of
the road, keeping an eye out for a carriage,
he kept saying, —

“ Follow on, old fellow, follow on. If
you haven’t a head, you must use your legs.
Why didn’t you remember to get this
woman’s address from Clergeot ? You
must be sharper than that, my old friend,
sharper than that 1

“ If you want to be a detective, you must
be fit for the profession ; and every detec-
tive ought to. have the shanks of a deer.”

He thought only of catching up with the
blue coupe and of nothing else. But he
was losing ground, — plainly losing ground.

He was only half-way down the Rue
Tronchet, and he broke down : he felt that his
limbs could not carry him a hundred steps
farther ; and the cursed coupe had reached
the Madeleine.

Hurrah 1 a covered hack, going in the
same direction with himself, passed by.

He made a sign, more despairing than
a drowning man’s. The sign was seen.

146

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

He gathered together his last strength, and
with a bound jumped up into the vehicle
without the aid of the step.

“ There,” he gasped, “ that blue coupe ;
twenty francs.”

“ All right,” replied the coachman, nod-
ding.

And he covered his ill-conditioned horse
with vigorous blows, muttering, —

“ A jealous husband following his wife ;
that’s evident. Hi, you rascal ! ”

As for Pere Tabaret, he was a long time
in recovering himself, his strength was so
completely exhausted.

For nearly a minute, he could not catch
his breath. They were soon upon the
boulevarde. He stood up in the carriage,
supporting himself by the driver’s seat.

“ I don’t see the coupe any longer,” he
said.

“ Oh, I see it plainly ! But it is drawn by
a splendid horse ! ”

“ Yours ought to be a better one. I said
twenty francs ; I’ll make it forty.”

The driver whipped up unpityingly, and
growled, —

“ There is no use talking, I must catch
her. For twenty francs, I would have let
her escape ; for I love the girls, and always
help them if I can. But, gracious ! Two
louis ! I wonder how a man who is as
ugly as that can be jealous.”

Pere Tabaret tried every way to occupy
his mind with less important matters.

He tried not to reflect, wishing first to
see this woman, speak with her, and care-
fully question her.

He was sure that by one word she would
destroy or save her lover.

“ What, destroy Noel? Ah, well, yes.”

This idea of Noel as the assassin har-
assed, tormented, pestered his brain, like
the moth which coming over and over
again, wounds itself at last against the
glass, or burns in the flame.

As they passed Chau see d’Antin, the
blue coupe was scarcely thirty paces in ad-
vance. The driver of the hack turned,
and said, —

“ The coupe has stopped.”

“ Then stop also. Don’t lose sight of it ;
but be ready to start again at the same
time it does.”

Pere Tabaret leaned as far as he could
out of the hack.

The young girl got out, crossed the
pavement, and entered a shop where cassi-
mere and laces were sold.

“ There,” thought Pere Tabaret, “ is
where the thousand franc notes go ! Half
a million in four years 1 What can these
creatures do with the money so lavishly

poured upon them ? Do they eat it ? On
the altar of what caprices do they squander
their fortunes ? They are the devil’s
own love potions, given to these idiots to
drink, making them ruin themselves for
them. They must possess some peculiar
art of preparing and spicing pleasure ;
since, once they get hold of a man, he
sacrifices every thing before leaving them.”

The hack moved on once more, but soon
stopped again.

The coupe made a new pause, this time
before a curiosity shop.

“ The woman wants to buy out all
Paris ! ” said the old fellow to himself in a
passion. “ Yes, if Noel committed the
crime, it was she who pushed him on.
These are my fifteen thousand francs that
she is frittering away now. How long will
they last her? It must have been for
money, then, , that Noel murdered this
Lerouge woman. He must be the lowest,
most infamous of men ! What a monster
of dissimulation and hypocrisy ! And to
think that he would be my heir, if I should
die here in my rage 1 Yes, it is written in
so many words, ‘I leave to my son Noel
Gerdy ! ’ If this boy is guilty, there isn’t
a punishment sufficiently great for him. I
wonder if this woman is never going
home I ”

“ This woman ” was in no hurry. The
day was charming, her toilette irresistible ;
and she intended showing herself off. She
visited three or four more stores, and at
last stopped at a confectioner’s, where she
remained for more than quarter of an
hour.

The old fellow, driven to destruction,
jumped and stamped in his hack.

It was torture thus to be kept from the
key to a terrible enigma by the caprice of
a worthless hussy 1 He was dying to fol-
low her, take her by the arm, and cry
out to her, —

“ Home, wretched creature, home at
once ! What are you doing here ? Don’t
you know that at this moment your lover,
he whom you have ruined, is suspected of
an assassination? Home, then, that I may
question you, that I may learn from you
whether he is innocent or guilty ; for you
can tell me, without a doubt, and I have
prepared a fine trap to catch you with.
Home, for this anxiety is killing me 1 ”

She returned to her carriage.

It moved on, passed up the Faubourg
Montmarte, turned into the Rue Pro-
vence, deposited its fair freight at her own
door, and drove away.

“ She lives here,” said Pere Tabaret,
with a sigh of relief.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

147

He got off the hack, gave the driver his
two louis, bade him wait, and followed the
young girl’s footsteps.

“ The old fellow is patient,” thought the
driver; “but the little brunette is a sly
one.”

The old detective opened the door of
the porter’s lodge.

“ What is the name of the lady who has
just entered? ” he demanded.

The porter did not seem disposed to
reply.

“ Her name ! ” insisted the old man.

The tone was so short, so imperative, that
the old porter was upset.

“ Madame Juliette Chaff bur,” he replied.

“ On what floor ? ”

“ The second, — the door opposite you.”

A moment after, the old man was wait-
ing in Madame Juliette’s parlors. Ma-
dame was dressing, the chambermaid in-
formed him, and would be down instantly.

Pere Tabaret was astonished at the lux-
ury of this parlor. There was nothing flar-
ing, or coarse, or in bad taste. The old
fellow, who knew a good deal about such
things, saw that every thing was of the
costliest. The ornaments on the mantel
alone must have cost, at the lowest esti-
mation, twenty thousand francs.

“ Clergeot,” he said, “ didn’t exaggerate
a bit.”

Juliette’s entrance disturbed his reflec-
tions.

She had taken off her dress, and had
hastily thrown about her a black dressing-
gown, trimmed with cherry satin. Her
beautiful hair, slightly disordered after her
drive, fell in cascades upon her neck, and
was fastened behind her delicate ears.
She dazzled Pere Tabaret ; and yet he
perfectly understood such follies.

“ You wished to speak with me ? ” she
inquired, bending graciously.

“ Madame,” replied Pere Tabaret, “ I
am a friend of Noel Gerdy’s, I may say
his best friend, and ” —

“ Pray sit down, monsieur,” interrupted
the lady.

She placed herself on a sofa, just show-
ing the tips of her little feet encased in
slippers matching the dress ; while the old
man sat down in a chair.

“ I come, madame,” he began, “ on
very serious business. Your presence at
Monsieur Gerdy’s house — ”

“Ah,” cried Juliette to herself, “he
knows of my visit already ; he must be a
detective.”

“ My dear child — ” began Tabaret, pa-
ternally.

“ Oh ! I know, monsieur, what your er-

rand is. Noel has sent you to scold me.
He is anxious to prevent my coming to his
house. Well, I don’t want to go ; but it’s
annoying to have a puzzle for a lover, —
a man whom nobody knows any thing
about, a riddle in a black coat and white
cravat, a sad and mysterious being — ”

“ You have been imprudent.”

“ Why ? Because he is going to get
married ? He has told you all about it,
then ? ”

“ Suppose that that was not true.”

“ Oh, but it is ! He told that old shark
Clergeot so, who told me. Any way, he
must be plotting something in that head
of his ; for the last month he has been so
fickle: he has changed so that I hardly
recognize him.”

Pere Tabaret was especially anxious to
know whether Noel had prepared an alibi
for the Tuesday of the crime. That for
him was the grand question. If he had, he
was certainly guilty ; if not, he might still
be innocent. Madame Juliette, he had no
doubt, could make that point perfectly clear.

Consequently he had come with his les-
son all prepared, his little trap all set.

The young lady’s outburst disconcerted
him a little ; but he continued, trusting to
the chances in conversation, —

“ Will you prevent Noel’s marriage,
then ? ”

“ His marriage ! ” cried Juliette, burst-
ing out into a laugh ; “ ah, the poor boy !
If he meets no worse obstacle than myself,
his path will be smooth. Let him marry,
this dear Noel, the sooner the better, and
let me hear no more of him.”

“ You don’t love him, then ? ” asked the
old fellow, surprised at this amiable frank-
ness.

“ Listen, monsieur. I did love him in-
tensely ; but that’s all over now. For four
years* I have passed an intolerable exist-
ence, — I, who am so fond of pleasure.
If Noel doesn’t leave me, I shall have to
leave him. I am tired of having a lover
who blushes for me and despises me.”

“ If he despises you, my dear, he scarce-
ly shows it here,” replied Pere Tabaret,
casting a significant glance about the room.

“ You mean,” said the girl, raising her-
self, “ that he spends a great deal for me.
It is true. He pretends that he has ruined
himself for me; it’s very possible. But
what’s that to me ? I am not a hard-
hearted woman ; and I would much prefer
less money and more love. My follies have
been inspired by anger and ennui. Mon-
sieur Gerdy treats me like a mercenary
woman ; and so I act like one. We are
quits.”

148

T11E WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ You know well that he worships you.”

“ He ? I tell you he is ashamed of me.
He hides me like a secret crime. You
are the first of his friends to whom I have
ever spoken. Ask him if he has ever rid-
den out with me? It would seem as
though my very touch was dishonor.
Why, no longer ago than last Tuesday, we
went to the theatre ! He hired an entire
box ; but do you think that he sat in it with
me ? Not at all. He slipped away ; and I
saw no more of him the whole evening.”

“How? Were you obliged to return
home alone ? ”

“No. At the end of the play, nearly
midnight, he d.eigned to reappear. Then we
went to the opera ball, where we took sup-
per. Ah, that was charming ! But, at
the ball, he didn’t dare to let down his
hood, or to take off his mask. At supper,

I had to treat him like a perfect stranger,
for fear of his friends.”

This, then, was the alibi prepared in
case of trouble.

Less wrapped up in her own passion,
Juliette would have noticed Pere Tabaret’s
looks, and would certainly have checked
herself.

He was perfectly livid, and trembled
like a leaf.

“ Well,” he said, making a superhuman
effort to articulate his words, “ the supper,

I suppose, Was none the less gay for
that.”

“ Gay ! ” repeated the girl, shrugging
her shoulders ; “ you would scarcely have
known him. If you ever ask him to din-
ner, take good care how you allow him to
drink. He made as merry over his wine
as a drunken sailor. At the second bottle,
he was as light headed as a cork ; so much
so, that he lost every thing he had, — his
coat, purse, umbrella, cigar-case — ”

Pere Tabaret hadn’t strength enough to
listen longer ; he jumped to his feet like a
furious madman.

“ Miserable wretch 1 ” he cried to him-
self, “ infamous scoundrel ! It is he ; but
I have him.”

And hek rushed out, leaving Juliette so
terrified that she called her maid.

“ Child,” said she, “ I have made some
dreadful bltfnder, have let some secret out.
I know I have done wrong ; I feel it. That
old fellow was no friend of Noel’s : he
came to circumvent me, to lead me by the
nose ; and he has done it. Without a
doubt I have spoken against Noel. What
could I have said ? I have thought care-
fully ; but I can remember nothing : he
must be warned though. I will write him
a line, while you get a messenger.”

Getting again into the hack, Pere Tab-
aret hurried towards the prefecture of
police. Noel an assassin ! His hate was
now without bounds, as formerly had been
his trusting love. He had been cruelly
played with, unworthily duped, by the
vilest, most criminal of men. He thirsted
for vengeance ; he tried to think of some
punishment which was not too small for the
crime.

“ For he has not only assassinated Clau-
dine,” thought he, “ but he has so arranged
the whole thing as to have an innocent
man accused and condemned. And who
knows that he did not kill his poor
mother ? ”

He regretted the abolition of torture,
the refined cruelty of the middle ages,
quartering, the stake, the wheel.

The guillotine was too quick ; the con-
demned man had scarcely time to feel the
cold steel cutting through his muscles ;
there is nothing but a single twitch of the
neck. In trying to soften the pain of
death, it had been made nowadays almost
a pleasure.

The certainty of confronting Noel, of
delivering him up to justice, of taking ven-
geance upon him, alone kept Tabaret up.

“ It is clear,” lie muttered, “ that the
wretch forgot those things at the railway,
in his haste to rejoin his mistress. Have t&ey
yet been called for? If he has had the
prudence to go boldly, and get them under
a false name, I can see no further proofs
against him. The testimony of this Mad-
ame Chaffour won’t be on my side. The
hussy, seeing her lover in danger, will
deny what she has just told me : she will
assert that Noel quitted her after ten
o’clock. But he can’t have dared to go to
the railway again.”

About the middle of the Rue Richelieu,
Pere Tabaret was taken with a sudden
faintness.

“ I am going to have an . attack, I fear,”
thought he. “ If I die, Noel will escape
me, and will still be my heir. A man
ought always to keep his will constantly
with him, to destroy it, if he wishes.”

Twenty paces on, he saw a doctor’s
sign : he stopped the hack, and rushed
into the house.

He was so excited, so beside himself, his
eyes had such an expression of wildness,
that the doctor was almost afraid of this
remarkable patient, who cried to him
hoarsely, —

“ Bleed me 1 ”

The doctor ventured an objection ; but
already the old fellow had taken off his
| coat, and drawn up one of his shirt-sleeves.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

149

“ Bleed me ! ” he repeated. “ Do you
want me to die ? ”

The doctor finally obeyed; and Pere
Tabaret came out quieted and relieved.

An hour later, armed with the necessary
power, and accompanied by a policeman,
he proceeded to the department of lost
articles at the railway, to make the neces-
sary search.

His investigations resulted as he had
expected.

He found that, on the evening of Shrove
Tuesday, there had been found in one of
the second class compartments of train forty-
five a great coat and an umbrella.

They showed him the articles; and he
recognized them as Noel’s.

In one of the pockets of the great coat,
he found a pair of pearl gray gloves, torn
and soiled, as well as a return ticket from
Chatou, which had not been used.

In hurrying on, in pursuit of the truth,
Pere Tabaret knew only too well what this
meant.

His conviction, unwillingly formed when
Clergeot disclosed to him Noel’s follies, had
been since strengthened by a thousand
circumstances. At Juliette’s house, he
became positively sure ; and yet, at this
last moment, when doubt became abso-
lutely impossible, in seeing the evidence
cleared up, he was depressed.

“On,”he cried at last. “Now to arrest him.”

And, without losing an instant, he has-
tened to the palais de justice, where he
hoped to find the judge of inquiry.

Notwithstanding the lateness of the
hour, Daburon had not yet left his office.

He was conversing with the Count de
Commarin, giving him the facts revealed
by Pierre Lerouge, whom the count had
believed dead many years since.

Pere Tabaret entered like a whirlwind,
too distracted to notice the presence of a
stranger.

“Monsieur,” he cried, stuttering with
rage, “ we have got the real assassin ! It
is he, my adoped son, my heir, Noel ! ”

“ Noel ! ” repeated Daburon, rising.
And then, in a lower tone, he added, “ I
had suspected it.”

“ A warrant is necessary at once,” con-
tinued the old detective. “ If we lose a
minute, he will slip through our finders.
He will know that he is discovered, if his
mistress has time to warn him of my visit.
Hasten, monsieur, hasten 1 ”

Daburon opened his lips to ask an ex-
planation; but the old detective con-
tinued, —

“ That is not yet all. An innocent man,
Albert, is still in prison.”

“ He will not be so an hour longer,” re-
plied the magistrate ; “ a moment before
your arrival, I had made arrangements to
have him released. But about this
other — ”

Neither Pere Tabaret nor Daburon had
noticed the disappearance of the Count de
Commarin.

At Noel’s name, he had gained the door
quietly, and rushed into the gallery.

CHAPTER XIX.

Noel had promised to use every effort,
— to attempt even the impossible, — to ob-
tain Albert’s release.

He in fact did interview some members
of the bar, but managed to be repulsed
everywhere.

At four o’clock, he called at the Count
de Commarin’s house, to inform the count
of the slight success he had met.

“ The count has gone out,” said Denis ;
“ but if you will take the f trouble to
wait — ”

“ I will wait,” answered Noel.

“ Then,” replied the valet, “ will you
please follow me ? I have the count’s orders
to take you into his study.”

This trust gave Noel an idea of his new
power. He was at home. Henceforth, in
this magnificent house, he was to be mas-
ter, — the heir ! His eye, which ran over
the entire room, was caught by a genealo-
gical table, hanging above the mantel. He
went up to it, and read it.

It was a page, and one of the most illus-
trious, taken from the golden book of
French nobility. Every name which has a
place in our history was there. The Com-
marins had mingled their blood with all
the great houses; two of them had even
married daughters of the reigning family.
A warm glow of pride filled the advocate’s
heart ; his pulse beat quicker : he raised
his head haughtily, as he muttered, —

“ Viscount de Commarin 1 ”

The door opened. He turned, and saw
the count entering.

At once Noel bowed respectfully. He
was petrified by the look of hatred, anger,
contempt, on his father’s face.

A shiver ran through his veins. His
teeth chattered ; he saw that he was lost.

“ Wretch ! ” cried the count.

And, dreading his own violence, the old
gentleman threw his cane into a corner.

He was unwilling to strike his son ; he
considered him unworthy of being struck
by his hands.

150

THE WIDOW LEKOUGE.

After he had entered, there was a mo-
ment of mortal silence, which seemed to
them both a century.

Both at the same time were filled with
bitter thoughts, which would require a vol-
ume to transcribe.

Noel took courage, and spoke first.

“ Monsieur,” he began.

“ Silence ! ” exclaimed the count hoarse-
ly; “keep silent. It may be — heaven
forgive me ! — that you are my son ! Alas,
I cannot doubt it now ! Wretch ! you
knew well that you were Madame Gerdy’s
son. Infamous creature 1 you have not
only committed this murder, but you have
caused an innocent man to be charged
with your crime. Parricide 1 you have
also killed your mother.”

The advocate attempted to stammer forth
a protest.

“You killed her,” continued the count
with increased energy, “ if not by poison,
at least by your crimes. I understand all
now : she was not delirious this morning.
But you knew well what she would say.
You were listening ; and, if you dared to
enter at the moment when one word would
have destroyed you, it was because you
calculated the effect of your presence. It
was to you that she spoke that last word,

‘ Assassin 1 ’ ”

Little by little, Noel had retired to the
end of the room ; and he stood leaning
against the wall, his head thrown back, his
hair on end, his eye haggard. A convulsive
shudder seized him. His face betrayed a
terror most horrible to see, — the terror of
a discovered criminal.

“ I know all, you see,” continued the>
count ; “ and I am not alone in that knowl-
edge. At this moment, a warrant of arrest
is issued against you.”

A cry of rage, like a hollow rattle, burst
from the advocate. His lips, which were
hanging through terror, now grew firm.
Overwhelmed in the very midst of his tri-
umph, he struggled against his fright. He
recovered himself with a look of defi-
ance. •

M. de Commarin, without seeming to
pay any attention to Noel, approached a
desk, and opened a drawer.

“ My duty,” said he, “ would be to leave
you to the hangman who awaits you ; but
I remember that I have the misfortune to
be your father. Sit down ; write and sign
a confession of your crime. You will then
fin^ fire-arms in that drawer. May heaven
forgive you 1 ”

The old gentleman moved towards the
door. Noel stopped him ; and drawing at
the same time a revolver from his pocket, —

“ Your fire-arms are needless, monsieur,”
he said : “ my precautions, you see, are
taken ; thev will never take me alive.
But — ”

“ But ? ” repeated the count harshly.

“ I must tell you, monsieur,” continued
the advocate coldly, “ that I do not see
fit to kill myself, — at least, at present.”

“ Ah ! ” cried M. de Commarin in dis-
gust, “ you are a coward ! ”

“ No, monsieur, not a coward ; butrl will
not give in until I am sure that every open-
ing is closed against me, — that I cannot
save myself.”

“Miserable wretch!” said the count,
threatening ; “ then I must do it.”

He moved towards the drawer; but
Noel closed it with a slam.

“ Listen to me, monsieur,” said the ad-
vocate in that hoarse, quick tone, which
imminent danger gives a man ; “ do not
waste in vain words the few moments’ re-
spite left me. I have committed a crime,
it is true, and I do not attempt to justify
it ; but who laid the foundation of it, if not
yourself? Now, you do me the favor of of-
fering me a pistol. Thanks. I must de-
cline it. This generosity is not through
any regard for me : you only wish to avoid
the scandal of my trial, and the disgrace
which cannot fail to reflect upon your name.”

The count was about to reply.

“ Give me leave,” interrupted Noel im-
periously. “ I decline killing myself ; I
wish to save my life, if possible. Supply
me with the means of escape ; and I prom-
ise you that I will die before I am captured.
I say, supply me with means ; for I have
not twenty francs to my name. My last
bank note was burnt the day when — you
understand me. There isn’t enough in
my mother’s house to give her a decent
burial. Then, some money.”

“ Never ! ”

“ Then I will deliver myself up ; and
you will see the effect upon the name you
hold so dear ! ”

The count, mad with rage, jumped to
his desk for a pistol. Noel placed him-
self before him.

“ Oh, do not struggle !” said he coldly ;
“ I am the strongest.”

M. de Commarin recoiled.

By thus speaking of the trial, of scandal,
disgrace, the advocate had made an im-
pression upon him.

For a moment hesitating between love
for his name and his burning desire to see
this wretch punished, the old gentleman
stood undecided.

Finally his feeling for his position tri-
umphed.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

151

“ Let us end this,” he said in a voice trem-
bling, and filled with the utmost contempt ;
“ let us end this disgraceful scene. What
do you ask ? ”

“ I have told you, money, — all that you
have here. But decide quickly.”

On Saturday the count had drawn from
his bankers the sum he had set aside for
fitting up the rooms of him whom he thought
his legitimate child.

“ I have eighty thousand francs here,” he
replied.

“ That’s very little,” said the advocate ;
“ but give them to me. I had counted
upon five hundred thousand francs from
you. If I succeed in escaping my pursu-
ers, you must hold at my disposal the bal-
ance, four hundred and twenty thousand
francs. Will you pledge yourself to give
them to me at the first demand ? I will
find some means of sending for them, with-
out risk to myself. At that price, you need
never fear seeing me again.”

For his only reply, the count opened a
little iron chest imbedded in the wall, and
drew out a roll of bank notes, which he
threw at Noel's feet.

A gleam of anger flashed in the advo-
cate’s eyes, as he took one step towards his
father.

“ Oh, do not push me too far ! ” he said
threateningly ; “ people who, like me, hav-
ing nothing to lose, are dangerous. I may
free myselfi and — ”

He bent down, however, and picked up
the notes.

“ Will you give me your word,” he con-
tinued, “ to let me have the rest ? ”

“ Yes.”

“ Then I am going. Do not fear. I
will be faithful to our compact : they shall
not take me alive. Adieu ! my father : you
are the true criminal ; but you will escape
punishment. Ah, heaven is not just! I
curse you.”

When, an hour later, the servants entered
the count’s study, they found him stretched
on the floor, his face against the carpet,
with scarcely a sign of life.

But Noel left the house, and staggered
up the Rue Universite.

It seemed to him that the pavement
reeled beneath his feet, and that every
thing about him was turning.

But, at the same time, strange to relate,
he felt an incredible relief, almost delight. .

Honest Balan’s theory was correct.

It was ended. All was over; he was
ruined. No more anguish now, no more
useless fright and foolish terrors, no more
dissembling, struggling. Henceforth there
was nothing more to fear. His horrible

role played to the bitter end, he could lay
aside his mask and breathe freely.

An irresistible weariness succeeding to
the highly-wrought passion which had sus-
tained him before the count destroyed his
impudent arrogance. All the springs of
his organization, stretched for a week be-
yond their limits, now relaxed and gave
way. The fever which for the last eight
days had kept him up failed him now ;
and, with the weariness, he felt an impera-
tive need of rest. He experienced a great
void, an utter indifference for every thing.

His insensibility bore a striking resem-
blance to that felt by people afflicted with
sea-sickness ; who care tor nothing, whom
no sensations are capable of moving, who
have neither strength nor courage to think,
and who could not be aroused from their
lethargy by the presence of any great
danger, not even of death itself.

They might have arrested him then ;
and he would never have thought of re-
sisting, nor of defending himself : he could
not have taken a step to hide, to fly, to
save himself in any way.

For a moment he had serious thoughts
of giving himself up as a prisoner, in or-
der to secure peace, to gain quiet, to free
himself from this anxiety about his safe-
ty-

But he struggled against this dull stupor.
The reaction came, shaking off* this weak-
ness of mind and body. ,

The consciousness of his position, of his
danger, came to him. He foresaw, with
horror, the scaffold, as one sees the abyss
by the flashes of lightning.

“ I must save my life,” he thought ; “ but
how ? ”

That mortal terror which deprives the
assassin of even ordinary common sense
seized him.

He looked eagerly about him, and
thought he noticed three or four passers by
look at him curiously. His terror in-
creased.

He began running in the direction of
the Latin quarter without purpose, with-
out aim, running for the sake of running, to
escape himself, — like Crime, as represen-
ted by the painter, fleeing under the lashes
of the furies.

He very soon stopped, however, seeing
that this extraordinary procedure attracted
attention.

It semed that every one was on the point
of denouncing him as the murderer : he
thought he read contempt and horror upon
every face, suspicion in every eye.

He walked along, instinctively repeat-
ing to himself, —

152

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

“ I must follow some plan ! ”

But, in this horrible excitement, he was
incapable of seeing any thing, of think-
ing, planning, determining, deciding.

When he first thought of the crime, he
had said to himself, “ I may be discovered.”
And, with this in sight, he had perfected
a plan which should put him bwyond all
fear of pursuit. He would do this and
that ; he would have recourse to this ruse,
he would take that precaution. Useless
forethought. Nothing of this plan seemed
feasible now. They were seeking for him ;
and he could think of no place in the
whole world where he would feel perfectly
safe.

He was near the Odeon, when a thought
quicker than a flash of lightning lit up the
darkness of his brain.

He thought that they were doubtless al-
ready in pursuit of him ; his description
would be given everywhere ; his white
cravat and well-dressed whiskers would be-
tray him as surely as though he carried a
placard.

Seeing a barber’s shop, he went to the
door ; but, while turning the knob, he grew
frightened.

They would think it singular that he
wanted his beard shaved; and if they
should question him.

He passed on.

He saw another barber’s shop ; and the
same doubts prevented his entering.

Gradually night came on ; and, with the
darkness, Noel seemed to recover his confi-
dence and boldness.

After this great shipwreck in port, hope
arose again to the surface. Why could he
not save himself?

There had been many just such cases.
He would go to a foreign country, change
his name, begin life over again, become a
new man entirely. He had the money ; and
that was the principal thing.

And, besides, when these eighty thou-
sand francs were spent, he had the cer-
tainty of receiving, on his first request,
five or six times as much more.

He was already thinking of the disguise
ihe should assume, and the frontier to
which he should go, when a recollection of
.Juliette crossed his heart like a hot iron.

Was he going to escape without her, go
away with the certainty of never seeing
her again ?

Should he fly, pursued by all the police
fin the world, tracked like a deer, and she
-.remain peaceably in Paris ? Impossible.
For whom had he committed this crime ?
For her. Who reaped the benefits of it ?
She. Was it not just, then, that she

should bear her share of the punish-
ment ?

“ She does not love me.” thought the ad-
vocate with bitterness ; “ she never loved
me. She would be delighted to be forever
free from me. She will not regret me, now
that I can be of no more use to her. An
empty coffer is an unserviceable piece of
furniture. Juliette is prudent ; she has
managed to save a pretty little fortune.
Grown rich at my expense, she will take
some new lover. She will forget me :
she will live happily ; while I — And I
was going away without her.”

The voice of prudence cried out to him,
“ Wretched man ! to drag a woman with
you, and such a woman, is but to draw at-
tention upon you, to render flight impossi-
ble, to give yourself up out of mere wan-
tonness.”

“ What of that ? ” replied passion. “ We
will be saved, or we will perish together.
If she does not love me, I love her. She
is a necessity to me. She must come,

But how to see Juliette, to speak with
her, to persuade her.

To go to her house would 'expose him
too much. The police were doubtless
there already.

“ No,” thought Noel ; “ no one knows
that she is my mistress. They won’t find
it out for two or three days ; and, besides,
it would be more dangerous still to write.”

He took a carriage from the stand not
far from the square L’Observatoire, and
a low tone told the driver the fatal
number of the house in the Rue Provence.

Stretched on the cushions of the car-
riage, lulled by its monotonous rattle, Noel
gave no thought to the future ; he did not
even think over what he should say to Ju-
liette. No. Involuntarily he passed in
review the events which had brought on
and hastened the catastrophe, like a man
who, near his death, reviews the tragedy or
comedy of his life.

He thought over the past month, day
by d*iy.

Ruined, without expedients, without re-
sources, he had determined at all hazards
to procure money, to still keep Madame
Juliette; when one day chance made him
master of the correspondence of the Count
de Commarin, — not only the letters read
to Pere Tabaret, and shown to Albert, but
also those, which, written by the count
when he believed the substitution accom-
plished, plainly established the fact.

The reading of these gave him an hour
of mad delight.

He believed himself the legitimate son ;

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

153

but soon his mother undeceived him, told
him the truth, proved it to him by many
letters from the Widow Lerouge, called
Claudine to witness it, and denxmstrated
it by the scar he bore.

But a drowning man never chooses what
branch he will draw himself out by. He
takes the first that comes. Noel resolved
to make use of these letters.

He attempted to use his ascendancy over
his mother, to induce her to lea^e the
count in his ignorance, so that he might
thus blackmail him. But Madame Gerdy
repulsed this proposition with horror.

Then the advocate made a confession of
all his follies, laid bare his financial condi-
tion, showed himself in his true light, sunk
in debt ; and he begged his mother to have
recourse to M. de Commarin.

This also she refused ; and prayers and
threats availed nothing against her resolu-
tion. For five days, there was a great
struggle between mother and son, in which
the advocate was finally conquered.

It was then that idea of murdering Clau-
dine occurred to him.

The unhappy woman had been no more
frank with Madame Gerdy than with
others; and Noel thought her a widow.
Her testimony suppressed, therefore, who
else stood in his way ?

Madame Gerdy, and perhaps the count.

He feared them but little.

If Madame Gerdy spoke, he could always
reply, “ You have stolen my name for your
son : and you will do any thing in the
world to preserve it for him.” But how to
do away with Claudine without danger ?

After long reflection, the advocate
thought of a diabolical stratagem.

He would burn all the count’s letters es-
tablishing the substitution, and preserve
only those rendering it probable.

These last he would show to Albert,
feeling sure, that, if Justice ever inquired
into the matter, it would naturally suspect
him who appeared to have so much interest
in Claudine’s death.

Not that he really thought of attaching
the crime upon Albert ; it was simply a
precaution. He counted upon so arranging
matters that the police would lose their
trouble, in the pursuit of an imaginary
criminal.

Nor did he think of ousting the Vis-
count de Commarin, and putting himself
in his place.

• His plan was simply, the crime once
committed, he would wait; things would
take their own course. He would negoti-
ate, he would compromise, at the price of
a fortune.

He felt sure of his mother’s silence, pro-
vided she never suspected him of the as-
sassination.

His plans laid, he decided to strike the
fatal blow on Shrove Tuesday.

To neglect no precaution, he would that
evening himself take Juliette to the
theatre, and afterwards to the opera ball.
He would thus secure, in case things went
wrong, an unanswerable alibi.

The loss of his great coat troubled him
for a moment ; but, upon reflection, he re-
assured himself, saying, —

“ Pshaw ! who will ever know ? ”

Every thing had resulted in accordance
with his calculations. He thought that
now it was but a matter of patience.

But, when Madame Gerdy read the
story of the murder, the unhappy woman
divined her son’s work ; and, in" the first
transports of her grief, she declared that
she would denounce him.

He was terrified. A mad fear of his
mother possessed him. One word from
her might destroy him. Putting a bold
face on it, however, he took the chances,
staking his all.

To put the police on Albert’s track was
to guarantee his own safety, to insure to
himself, in case of success, the name and
fortune of the Count de Commarin.

Circumstances, as well, as his own terror,
had increased his boldness and his acute-
ness.

Pere Tabaret’s visit occurred just
then.

Noel knew of his connection with the
police, and knew that the old fellow would
make a most valuable confidant.

So long as Madame Gordy lived, Noel
trembled. The fever was untrustworthy,
and might betray him. But, when she had
breathed her last, he believed himself safe.
He thought it all over : he could see no ob-
stacle in his way ; he had triumphed.

And now all was discovered, just as he
was about to reap the benefits. But how ?
by whom ? What fatality had unearthed
a secret which he had believed buried
with Madame Gerdy ?

But what boots it, when one is at the
bottom of an abyss, to know what stone
had given way, to ask by what descent he
had fallen ?

The hack stopped in the Rue Provence.

Noel leaned out of the door, searching
the neighborhood, throwing a glance into
the depths of the porter’s lodge. %

Seeing no one, he paid his fare through
the front window, before getting out of the
carriage, and, crossing the pavement with
a bound, he leaped up the stairway.

154

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

Charlotte, at sight of him, gave a shout
of joy.

“ You are here ! ” she cried. “ Ah,
madame has been expecting you with the
greatest impatience ! She is very anxious.”

Juliette expecting him ! Juliette anx-
ious !

The advocate did not stop to ask ques-
tions. On reaching this spot, he seemed
suddenly to recover his coolness. He
could understand his imprudence ; he knew
the exact value of every instant.

“ If any one rings,” said he to Charlotte,
“ don’t let them in. No matter what they
do or say, don’t let them in.”

On hearing Noel’s voice, Juliette ran out
to meet him. He pushed her gruffly into
the salon, and followed, closing the door.

There for the first time she saw his face.

He was so changed ; his look was so hag-
gard that she could not keep from crying
out, —

“ What is the matter ? ”

Noel made no reply; he advanced
towards and took her hand.

“Juliette,” he demanded in a hollow
voice, fastening his flashing eyes upon her,
— “Juliette, be sincere; do you love
me ? ”

She instinctively felt that something
dreadful had occurred : ' she seemed to
breathe an atmosphere of evil ; but she,
as usual, affected indifference.

“ You ill-natured fellow,” she replied,
pouting her lips most provokingly, “ do
you deserve — ”

“ Oh, enough ! ” broke in Noel, stamping
his feet fiercely. “ Answer me,” he contin-
ued, bruising her pretty hands in his grasp,
“ yes, or no, — do you love me ? ”

A hundred times had she played with
her lover’s anger, delighting to excite him
into a fury, to enjoy the pleasure of ap-
peasing him with a word ; but she had
never seen him like this before.

She had wronged him greatly ; and she
dared not complain of this his first harsh-
ness.

“ Yes, I love you,” she stammered, “ do
you not know it ? ”

“ Why ? ” replied the advocate, releasing
her hands ; “ why ? Because, if you love me
you must prove it ; if you love me, you
must follow me at once, — abandon every
thing. Come, fly with me. Time
presses — ”

The young girl was terrified.

“ Great heavens ! what has happened ? ”

“ Nothing, except that I have loved you
too much, Juliette. When I found I had
no more money for your luxury, your ca-
prices, I became wild. To procure money,

I, — I committed a crime, — a crime; do
you understand ? They are pursuing me
now. I must fly : will you follow me ? ”

Juliette’s eyes grew wide with astonish-
ment ; but she doubted Noel.

“ A crime ? You ? ” she began.

“ Yes, me ! Would you know the truth ?

I have committed murder, an assassination.
But it was all for you.”

The advocate felt that Juliette would
certainly recoil from him in horror. He
expected that terror which a murderer in-
spires. He was resigned to it in advance.
He thought that she would fly from him ;
perhaps there would be a scene. She
might, who knows, have hysterics ; might
cry out, call for succor, for help, for aid.
He was wrong.

With a bound, Juliette flew to him,
throwing herself upon him, her arms about
his neck, and embraced him as she had
never embraced him before.

“ Yes, I do love you ! ” she cried. “ Yes,
you have committed a crime for my sake,
because you loved me. You have a heart.

I never really knew you before ! ”

It had cost him dear to inspire this pas- .
sion in Madame Juliette; but Noel never
thought of that.

He experienced a moment of intense de-
light : nothing appeared hopeless to him
now.

But he had the presence of mind to free
himself from her embrace.

“ Let us go,” he said ; “ the one great
danger is, that I do not know from whence
the attack comes. How they have discov-
ered the truth is still a mystery to me.”

Juliette remembered her alarming visitor
of the afternoon ; she understood it all.

“ Oh, what*a wretched woman I am!”
she cried, wringing her hands in despair ;

“ it is I who have betrayed you. It oc-
curred on Tuesday, did it not ? ”

“ Yes, Tuesday.”

“ Ah, then I have told all, without a
doubt, to your friend, the old man I sup-
posed you had sent, Tabaret ! ”

“ Has Tabaret been here ? ”

“ Yes ; just a little .while ago.”

“ Come, then,” cried Noel, “ quickly ; it’s
a miracle that he hasn’t been back.”

He took her arm, to hurry her away;
but she nimbly released herself.

“ Wait,” said she. “ I have some money,
some jewels. I will take them.”

“ It is useless. Leave every thing behind.

I have a fortune, Juliette ; let us fly ! ”

She had already opened, her jewel box,
and was throwing every thing of value
that she possessed pell mell into a little
travelling bag.

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

155

“ Ah, you are ruining me,” cried Noel,
“ you are ruining me ! ”

He spoke thus ; but his heart was over-
flowing with joy.

“ What sublime devotion ! She loves me
truly,” he said to himself ; “ for me, she re-
nounces this happy life without hesitation ;
lor me, she sacrifices all ! ”

Juliette had finished her preparations, and
was quietly tying on her bonnet, when the
door-bell rang.

“ They are here ! ” cried Noel, becoming,
if possible, even more livid.

They stood as immovable as two statues ;
great drops of perspiration on their fore-
heads, their eyes dilated, listening breath-
lessly.

A second ring was heard, then a third.

Charlotte appeared, walking on tip-toe.

“ There are a great many at the door,”
she whispered ; “ I heard them talking to-
gether.”

Growing tired of ringing, they began
pounding. A voice reached the salon ;
they distinguished but the one word, “ law ! ”

“ No hope ! ” murmured Noel.

“ Don’t despair,” cried Juliette ; “ the
servant’s stairway ! ”

“ They will scarcely leave that un-
guarded.”

Then Juliette became depressed, terri-
fied.

She was surprised by heavy steps on the
stairway, made by some one endeavoring
to walk softly.

“ There must be some escape 1 ” she
cried fiercely.

“ Yes,” replied Noel, “ one way. I have
given my word. They will pick the lock.
Bolt all the doors, and make them break
them down : it will gain timg for me.”

Juliette and Charlotte sprang forward to
do this. Noel, leaning against the mantel,
took out his revolver, and placed it against
his breast.

But Juliette, who had returned, perceiv-
ing the movement, threw herself headlong
upon her lover, to prevent his purpose,
but so violently that the pistol was dis-
charged. The shot took effect, the ball
passing through Noel’s stomach. He gave
a terrible cry.

Juliette had made his death a terrible
punishment; she had only prolonged his
agony.

He staggered, but did not fall, support-
ing himself by the mantel, while the blood
flowed copiously.

Juliette clung to him, trying to wrest the
pistol from him.

“ You shall not kill yourself,” she
cried, “you shall not. You are mine; I

love you. Let them come. What can
they do to you ? If they imprison you,
you can escape. I will aid you : we will
bribe the jailors. Come. We will live so
happily, no matter where, far off in Amer-
ica where no one knows us ! ”

The outside door had yielded ; they were
now at work at the door of the ante-cham-
ber.

“ Hush ! ” murmured Noel ; “ they must
not take me alive ! ”

And, with one last effort, triumphing
over his dreadful agony, he released him-
self, and pushed Juliette away, who fell
back on a near sofa.

Then, seizing the revolver, he applied it
anew to the place where he felt his heart
beating, pulled the trigger, and rolled to
the floor.

It was full time ; for the police at that
moment burst open the door.

The first thought of the detectives was,
that Noel, before shooting himself, had shot
his mistress.

They knew of cases where people had
romantically desired to quit this world to-
gether ; and had they not heard two shots ?
But Juliette was already on her feet again.

“ A doctor,” she cried, “ a doctor ! He
cannot be dead ! ”

One man ran out ; while the others, un-
der the direction of Pere Tabaret, carried
the advocate’s body, and laid it on Madame
Juliette’s bed.

“ He cannot live ! ” murmured the old
man, whose anger left him at the sight. “ I
loved him as though he were my child ; his
name is still on my will ! ”

Pere Tabaret stopped. Noel uttered a
groan, and opened his eyes.

“ You see that he will live ! ” cried Juli-
ette.

The advocate shook his head feebly,
and, for a moment, he tossed himself pain-
fully on the bed, passing his right hand
first under his coat, and then under his
pillow.

He turned himself half-way towards the
wall, and then back again.

Upon a sign, easily understood, they
placed another pillow beneath his head.

Then, in a broken, stifled voice, he spoke
a few words.

“ I am the assassin,” he said* “ Write.
I will sign it ; it will free Albert. I owe
him that at least.”

While they were writing, he drew Juli-
ette to him.

“ My fortune is beneath the pillow,” he
whispered. “ I give it all to you.”

A flow of blood burst from his mouth ;
and they thought he was dying.

156

THE WIDOW LEROUGE.

But lie still had strength enough to sign
the confession, and to launch a joke at Pere
Tabarct.

All, ha, old fellow ! ” he said, “ so you
are a detective, eh ? It must be great fun
to trap one’s friends ! Ah, I have had a
fine game ; but, with three women in the
play, you are always sure to lose.”

He felj back in, agony ; and, when the
doctor arrived, he could only announce the
death of Maitre Noel Gerdy, advocate.

CHAPTER XX.

Some months later, one evening, at old
Mademoiselle Goello’s, the Marquise d’Ar-
langes, looking ten years younger than when
we saw her last, was giving her dowager
friends an account of the wedding of her
grand-daughter Claire, who had married the
Viscount Albert de Commarin.

“ The marriage,” said she, “ took place
on our estate in Normandy, without any
flourish of trumpets. My son-in-law wished
it ; but I disapproved heartily. *The noise
about the mistake of which he had been
the victim would have given eclat to the
wedding. That was my opinion ; and I
made no effort to conceal it. Pshaw ! the
boy is as stubborn as his father, which is
saying a good deal : he persisted in his
course ; and my shameless grandchild,
obedient to her future husband, took her
stand against me. And yet I defy any one
to find to-day a single individual with
courage enough to confess that he ever for
an instant doubted Albert’s innocence. I
have left the young people in all the happi-
ness of the honeymoon, billing and cooing
like a pair of turtle-doves. It must be con-
fessed that they have paid dearly for their
happiness. May they be happy, and may
they have lots of children ! for they will
find no difficulty in providing for them.
For, do you know, for the first time in his

life, and probably for the last, the count
has behaved like an angel ! He has settled
all his fortune on his son absolutely. He
intends living alone at one of his country-
seats. I don’t think the old man is quite
himself. I am not sure that he has entirely
recovered his head since that attack ; but
my grandchild is nicely settled. I know
what it has cost me, and how economical I
shall have to be ; but I despise parents who
hesitate at any pecuniary sacrifice, when the
happiness of their children is at stake.”

The marquise forgot, however, to state
that, eight days before the wedding, Albert
had freed her from a very embarrassing situ-
ation, and had discharged a very considera-
ble amount of her debts.

Since then, she had borrowed from him
only nine thousand francs ; but she intended
confessing to him some day how much she
was annoyed by an upholsterer, by her
dressmaker, by three linen drapers, and by
five or six other tradesmen.

Ah, well, she was a worthy woman ; she
never said any evil about her son-in-law !

Taking: refugee in Poitou, after sending
in his resignation, Daburon sought rest and
forgetfulness. His friends, however, do not
despair of some time inducing him to
marry.

Madame Juliette was entirely consoled.
The eighty thousand francs hidden by
Noel under the pillows were not taken
from her. She had much more beside, as
it was not long before the sale of her mag-
nificently furnished apartments was an-
nounced.

Pere Tabaret was alone indelibly im-
pressed. After having believed in the in-
fallibility of justice, he now saw no errors
so great as judicial ones.

The old amateur detective doubted the
existence of crime, and believed that the
evidence of one’s senses proved nothing.
He circulated a petition for the abolition
of capital punishment, and organized a
society for aiding the poor and innocent
accused.

FINIS.

MRS. LEONOWENS’S BOOKS.

THE ENGLISH GOVERNESS AT THE SIAMESE COURT.

BEING

Recollections of Six Years in the Royal Palace at Bangkok.

By Anna Harriette Leonowens.

With 16 full-page Illustrations, from Photographs presented to the Author by the

King of Siam. 1vol. Small Svo. $3.00.

“ A series or graphic sketches, which at the same time throw great light on a condition of society to which there is
no parallel in Western civilization, and which afford a fruitful theme for reflection to the student of the various phases
of human nature. Her book carries every internal sign of acute and faithful observation, she writes in an agreeabe
style, presenting a narrative that, in addition to the charm of personal interest, supplies a fund of original and valua-
ble information on a country which lies beyond the usual range of foreign travel.” — New York Tribune.

“ As characterizing the volume before us, however, the word ‘ freshness ’ is utterly inadequate, for the book is a rev-
elation, — the lifting of a curtain which has hitherto hidden from our view a peculiar and interesting people It is not
an ordinary traveller's record of facts and impressions gathered haphazard, and not always verified : it is the matured
and carefully arranged result of observation and experience during the author's six years’ residence at the court of
Siam. Her opportunities for studying her subject were the best possible, and her qualifications for the work, as mani-
fested in the work itself, were in no degree inferior. Regarding this volume, both with respect to its readableness
and its positive value as a disclosure of the semi-civilization of a strange people, we must pronounce it the most strik-
ing book of its kind that has been published in a long time.” — The Literary World.

“ * The English Governess at the Court of Siam,’ portions of which have appeared in the ‘ Atlantic,’ is one of the
most remarkable an ; interesting books of the day. The author, Mrs. Leonowens, is a lady of extraordinary courage,
and writes in a graphic style which brings the strange life of the palace and kingdom before us in the most vivid
fashion. No romance can be more fascinating than her description of the manners of this remote and but little known
country. Especially interesting is the picture she gives of Buddhism with its remarkable correspondences to Chris-
tianity in doctrines and ceremonies.” — New Haven Palladium.

THE ROMANCE OF THE HAREM.

By Mrs. A. H. Leonowens, Author of “The English Governess at the Siamese Court.”

Illustrated. 1 vol. 12mo. $3 00.

“ When we began to feel that the poetry of the East was exhausted, Mrs. Leonowens opened for us the door into
a land of romance as novel, as fascinating, and as splendid as any the Orient has ever shown us. In her ‘ English
Governess at the Siamese Court’ we had a somewhat confused glimpse of it; but iu ‘The Romance of the Harem’ we
have our curiosity fully satisfied.” — Hartford Courant.

“A fresh, original, and fascinating book, giving us a true picture of life under circumstances and conditions
wholly new and strange to the American reader. It is not ‘Romance ’ in the sense of fictitious and unreal, but in
the sense of ‘Truth stranger than Fiction ’ ; a revelation from an unknown land, of ideas, customs, super.-titions, be-
liefs, social and domestic relations almost impossible to the realism of Western life and thought. The author 4ias
invested the narrative with all the charms of romance, without subtracting at all from its historical charaet-r ; giving
us mostly only what passed under her own observation, and what formed a part of her own experience and action, in
the marvellous drama. She has in fact added a new chapter to the annals of the human racs in what she has recorded
of the government, court-life, laws, civil institutions, and populations of Siam.” — Universalist Quarterly.

“Mrs Leonowens’s new book is as curious, as strange, as striking, as forcible, and as well done as its most enter-
taining and popular predecessor, and gives revelations of the more hidden aspects of Oriental life not less remarkable,
interesting, and suggestive. The skid of her pen is equal to the vigor of her judgment and the bravery of her soul, and
that is saying a good deal.” — The Morning Star.

*** For sale by Booksellers. Seat, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers,

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston.

ENIGMAS OF LIFE.

By W. R. GREG.

1 vol. • • • 12mo. • • • $2.00.

CONTENTS. — Realizable Ideals. — Malthus Notwithstanding — Non-Survival of the Fittest. —
Limits and Directions of Human Development. — The Significance of Life. — De Profundis. — Else-
where. — Appendix.

“ What is to be the future of the human race ? What are the great obstacles in the way of progress ? What are
the best means of surmounting these obstacles ? Such, in a rough statement, are some of the problems which are more
or less present to Mr. Greg’s mind 5 and although he does not pretend to discuss them fully, he makes a great many
observations about tbem, always expressed in a graceful style, frequently eloquent, and occasionally putting old subjects
in a new light, and recording the results of a large amount of reading and inquiry.” — Saturday Review.

“ It would be unfair to deny to these essays very great ability. The style is clear and vigorous ; the amount of
thought and power displayed is considerable. Many of the remarks on our social condition, on the prevention of dis-
ease, on the forces which act on population, are exceedingly valuable, and may be read with much advantage.” —
The Illustrated Review (London).

“ The whole set of Essays is at once the profoundest and the kindliest that has for some time tried to set people
a-thinking about themselves and their destiny.” — Daily Telegraph (London).

“ Mr. Greg is fertile, vigorous, and suggestive in his thinking ; he is a thoughtful, earnest, independent, and well-
informed man, who really faces the problems he discusses.” — Boston Olobe.

“ Full of writing of singular force and singular candor.” — The Spectator (London).

MYTHS AND MYTH-MAKERS:

OLD TALES AND SUPERSTITIONS INTERPRETED BY COMPARATIVE MYTHOLOOY.

By JOHN FISKE.

1 vol. . • . 12mo. ... $2.00.

“ It is both an amusing and instructive book, evincing large research and giving its results in a lucid and attractive
style. The author’s purpose is to present old tales and superstitions as interpreted by comparative mythology. The
seven chapters of the volume relate respectively to ‘ The Origins of Folk Lore,’ 4 The Descent of Fire,’ ‘ Werewolves and
Swan-Maidens,’ ‘ Light and Darkness,' 4 Myths of the Barbaric World,’ 4 Juventus Mundi,’ and ‘The Primeval Ghost
World.’ The volume is so rich in matter that the task of selection is difficult.” — Boston Olobe.

“ With the capacity for profound research and the power of critical consideration, he has a singular grace of style
and an art of clear and simple statement which will not let the most indifferent refuse knowledge of the top’cs treated.
In such a field as the discussion of old fables and superstitions affords, we have not only to admire Mr. Fiske for the
charm of his manner, but for the justice and honesty of his method.” — The Atlantic Monthly

“ Mr. Fiske is a master of perspicuous explanation. He has not laid claim to any originality in the present volume,
but his most grudging critics must allow that his presentation of this intricate subject is simple and straightforward and
at the same time scholarly.” — Mew York World.

V For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers,

JAMES R. OSGOOD 8c CO, Boston.

“ A genial exponent of the best sort of American thought .” — The Ex-
aminer (London).

BACKLOG STUDIES.

By CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER,

AUTHOR OF “MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN,” “S A U N TERI N G S,” etc.

With. Twenty-one Illustrations by Augustus Hoppin.

1 vol. Small quarto. $2.00.

This delightful volume has been greeted with remarkable unanimity as one of the wittiest,
freshest, most wholesome books in American literature. The humorous genius which irradiated
Mr. Warner’s previous volumes, “My Summer in a Garden” and “ Saunterings,” pervades these
“ Backlog Studies,” and lends them an indescribable charm.

NOTICES OP

Boston Advertiser.

The light of the great wood fire falls sidewise and
glancingly on many questions of social science and house-
hold economy, and though it determines none, it helps us
to see them with clearer vision than we frequently get
from more serious disquisitions. But the chats about
criticism, the great New England pie-line, the furnishing
of r ioms, the progress of civilization, the worth of Orien-
tal classics, the work of reformers, women novelists, the
clothes question, Gothic architecture in modern churches,
life at Concord, speech and custom in Boston, social
popularity, misdirected energy, the personality of authors
in their books, the value of the stage as a mirror of nature,
— the best of the book is not in anything of this sort.
And it is easier to say in what the best is not, than to de-
fine precisely in what it is. Who can catch and deliver
over the real charm of an evening by the fireside with
half a dozen clever people?

One might say that the studies are wise and witty,
and tender and fanciful, and incisive and shrewd, — all
that is true, but the whole truth is something more.
There is a certain sober dryness and whimsical serious-
ness about them which sets Mr. Warner apart from other
humorists of our time. His individuality is that of a
Yankee who has seen a good deal of life beside what is
found in a library. The reading of his book is almost as
solid enjoyment as that of stirring up a wood fire, — it
would be an evidence of superior virtue in a married mau
to let his wife read it first.

Chicago Times.

The tone of thought is bright, with a sunny, genial
spirit, and fertile in suggestiveness. It is rarely that we
find a more pure, racy, limpid style, ami a more graceful
knack of expression than in these bright fireside talks. It
makes pleasant holiday reading, pleasant summer read-
ing, in despite of the idea of blazing backlogs and a roar-
ing hearth involved in the title, — in short, delightful
reading for any time of the year. Mr. Warner’s previous
books gave him a happy reputation for a fresh, racy,
pure Anglo-Saxon style, and the last effort will most as-
suredly not betray that reputation.

Philadelphia Bulletin.

Delicious essays, full of good things as a pudding is
full of plums, always, as the author himself remarks of
Dr Holmes, “ saying the same things you wish you had
said yourself,” always gbnial, humorous, feasting eye and
mind with intellectual fat things ; it is a book among a
thousand and one, that should be in every family.

THE PRESS.

Buffalo Courier.

It is easy enough to begin the work of picking out the
beauties of this book, but the difficulty is to know where
to end. The fire kindled by the author wakes a host of
memories, and we know instinctively the characters he
draws, from the millionnaire who pointed out to his wife
a famous picture by Rubens as “The Rape of the Sar-
dines,” to the Boston person who reads the Rig-Veda at
his breakfast-table instead of the morning paper. But
take the book for yourself, reader. Don't go through it as
if it were a task, but take it up and read it a study at a
time. It has the way of talking which an old, familiar
friend uses, and as you go about your work, its words
will come back again and again, with added volumes
of suggestiveness. It is not the sentimental musings
of a youth, but the gentlest and finest experiences of a
man of maturity.

Boston Courier.

The pervading charm of the book is its naturalness.
The style, while highly refined and scholar-like, is as un-
affected and easy as fireside talk. This is esptcially true
of the later essays in the book, wherein the author and his
friends hold discourse upon various forms of life and
manners. They speak, each man in his own tongue, as
in the unrestricted freedom of friendship. There is, too,
a quiet, delicate humor, which gives piquancy to all they
say, whether it be about the Gothic architecture of our
day, or modern reform, or aught else. But the book is
not only very pleasant reading, — it is very suggestive,
and you carry the flavor of it in your brain long after
you have put it on the shelf. It is worthy of a place
beside those old essayists who sanctify a library.

Baltimore Gazette.

When the firm of James R. Osgood k Co. get hold of a
good thing they take care that it shall not want a fitting
accompaniment of binding and typography, dainty little
etchings for illustrations, wide-margined paper, and fault-
less press-work. Such a good thing is Mr. Charles Dud-
ley Warner’s “ Backlog Studies,” and such justice has
been done to the book by its publishers. “Backlog
Studies ” is full of quiet, quaint humor, and has con-
firmed the reputation Mr. Warner won by “ My Summer
in a Garden.”

New York Evening Post.
A delicious volume.

*#* For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers,

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston.

EVERY SATURDAY:

A Weekly Journal of Choice Reading.

EVERY SATURDAY GIVES A LARGE AND CHOICE VARIETY OF

Serial Tales, Short Stories, Critical and Descriptive Essays, Sketches of Travel and Adventure,

Poems, Biographical Papers, Literary Information ;

in line, whatever contributes to produce a Weekly acceptable and attractive to all classes

of intelligent American readers.

Among the noted authors represented in Evert Saturday are Arthur Helps, Charles
Kingsley, Matthew Arnold, Matthew Browne, Edmund Yates, Henry Kingsley, G. H.

Lewes, Geo. Macdonald, “ The Country Farson,” Frances Power Cobbe, Karl Blind,
Captain Burton, and many others.

“Evert Saturday well sustains its reputation for
skimming the cream of the British magazines, and avoid-
ing the skim milk. Under the indefatigable editorship
of Mr. T. B. Aldrich, who is enabled by his publishers to
avail himself of the advanced sheets of many foreign
periodicals, this bright, useful, and entertaining weekly
is becoming one of the necessities of the American home.”
— Bouton Olobe.

“Evert Saturday has neither superior nor equal in
this country. Mr. T. B. Aldrich has its editorial man-
agement. He is enabled by his publishers to avail himself
of the advanced sheets of most foreign periodicals, and
his own careful attention and excellent taste enable him
to make the journal useful, entertaining, — almost indis-
pensable to American readers.” — Utica Herald.

“The advent of Every Saturday is among the pleasant
gifts of the week. A skilful hand guides its interests, and
freights it with good things from week to week. It well
merits the name of ‘ A Journal of Choice Reading,’ for
its subjects vary from ‘ grave to gay,’ with a judicious
mingling of stories, criticism, and biography, seasoned
with science, humor, poetry, and ‘ foreign notes ’ in the
right proportions.” — Boston Transcript.

“ Every Saturday in its new-old form is eminently
satisfactory. Nothing could be more in harmony with an
open fire, a pair of slippers, and an arm-chair than its
dainty typography, and fresh selections from the rich
field of English periodical literature.” — The Advance
( Chicago).

“Every Saturday contains a rich in-gathering of the
best and latest of English magazine and periodical writ-
ing. Every Saturday, as ‘ a journal of choice reading,’
is a success. For our taste its editing could not be im-
proved.” — Buffalo Courier.

“ Every Saturday is as welcome a visitor in Its new
form as when it came to us full of fine illustrations. All
of the best English magazines are searched for their
sprightliest and most entertaining contents, while more
serious and thoughtful themes are not neglected.” — New-
ark Advertiser.

“With every succeeding week Every Saturday gives
its readers fresh cause for gratification. It is a handy,
enjoyable, and valuable weekly miscellany of choice read-
ing, — the cream of the cream of foreign periodical litera-
ture.” — Cleveland Herald.

“In typography, paper, and general appearance, it
commends itself to the eye, as its matter does to the sense.
In our frequent journeys by rail, we have no wish to kill
the time if so fortunate as to have Every Saturday for a
travelling companion.” — New York Christian Leader.

■

“Every Saturday has become, under the careful and
catholic editorial supervision it has, an indispensable
Saturday-night companion in cultivated households” —
Hartford Courant.

“ A very desirable paper for the family circle.” —
Detroit Free Press.

Weekly Parts, 10 cents ; Monthly Parts, 50 cents. $5.00 a year; $4.00 to subscribers for
any other periodical issued by the Publishers,

JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., Boston.

/ .

\

V

'

■ • v * ‘ i

i> ,>*. r-

■

>

i '

%

-

,

.

«